


The Grinch and the Amazing Christmas Miracle

by Bamboozlepig



Category: Adam-12
Genre: Adult Situations, Child Abandonment, Christmas Story, Gen, Language, Suicide, dark themes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-07
Updated: 2012-06-07
Packaged: 2017-11-07 05:25:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 67,926
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/427351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bamboozlepig/pseuds/Bamboozlepig
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pete's being a grinch during their Christmas Eve watch, and while Jim tries in vain to jolly Pete out of his bad mood, it takes a few miracles, both big and small, to make Pete remember the true meaning of Christmas.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Away In A Manger

**Author's Note:**

> Adam-12 is the property of MarkVII/Universal, no copyright infringement intended. Also don't own any of the songs used herein, most are traditional Christmas carols that I've used, and any that are not are the property of the respective copyright holders. **ALL ORIGINAL CONTENT OF THIS STORY IS THE SOLE PROPERTY OF BAMBOOZLEPIG AND MAY NOT BE USED WITHOUT PERMISSION.** In order to enhance the overall plot experience, creative liberties may have been intentionally taken with the real-life protocols depicted herein.
> 
> In writing this piece, I mean no disrespect to anyone's religion or holiday beliefs and I couldn't resist a few slight homages to my favorite Christmas specials and movies over the years, so no copyright infringement intended towards any of them. And whatever it is that you believe in, sometimes we ALL need a miracle or two (or three, or four) to remind us of the true meaning of Christmas: LOVE.
> 
>  
> 
> ****

AWAY IN A MANGER

" _Peter, do you remember the Christmas Eve when…?"_

"One-Adam-12, PM watch clear," Jim Reed says into the mike. As the dispatcher acknowledges him, he replaces the mike in the holder with a thunk. "And thus beginith our Christmas Eve watch," he says brightly. "I wonder what this year's watch holds in store for us? This is only the second I've ever worked as a cop, you know," he says. "Remember last year's Christmas Eve watch, Pete?"

"You mean the one where the poor lady had her car stolen, along with the donated Christmas presents we'd given her for her kids that she'd stashed in the trunk?" I ask as I pull out of the station parking lot. "Where we arrested the guy who was so drunk he nearly creamed us while running a stop sign, then crashed into a tree after we gave chase? And we had the domestic call at the battling Beuhlers over a ham, a wassail bowl, and a fake Christmas tree? Is that the one you're talking about? How could I forget it, Reed." My voice is heavy with sarcasm. "About the only GOOD thing that came out of that night was the fact that Harvey got his yellow dump truck at the end…AFTER we convinced Jerry Miller that the stolen toys weren't evidence."

"Yeah, that was the best thing," he says agreeably. "But the rest of the night wasn't so bad, at least it wasn't like what I thought it would be. The drunk we arrested was a happy drunk, and went willingly with us to jail, instead of fighting us like they sometimes do. And the battling Beuhlers made up in the end, after a couple of false starts."

"Yeah, after we threatened to arrest both of them," I say rather dryly. "Ain't nothin' like that magic word 'jail' to make somebody shape their act up, and fast. And as far as the happy drunk we hauled down, if you remember correctly, he was STILL trying to lead the rest of the happy drunks in a happy drunk chorus of 'Deck The Halls' when we left the station."

"Now THERE'S a Christmas album I'd pass on," he says. "The Central Division Happy Drunk Chorus Sings The Magic Of Christmas." He looks over at me, grinning. "Don'tcha think, Pete?"

"Think what?" I ask.

"That that would be a Christmas album to pass on getting," he says.

"Right now I'd pass on all Christmas albums," I tell him. "I'm sick of Christmas music. I have been since after Thanksgiving. In fact, I'm sick of Christmas, period. I'll be glad when it's over with."

He looks over at me. "Somebody's not in the Christmas spirit, methinks," he observes.

"Youthinks right," I reply.

"That's okay," he says happily. "I've got more than enough Christmas spirit to share, Pete. And I'll be happy to give you some."

"Thanks, but no," I say. "I'll pass."

"You know, we had a great time last night," he says. "Jean and I watched Christmas specials on tv with Jimmy…"

"Wait a sec," I interrupt. "Isn't Jimmy a little too young yet to enjoy Christmas specials on tv? I mean, he's only a few months old."

Reed shrugs. "He likes the colors and the movements he sees on the screen," he says. "Anyway, after we put him to bed, we had a little bit of a Christmas special ourselves."

"Spare me, please," I say, holding my hand up. "I don't wanna hear about your love life, Jim."

"Oh no, it wasn't that," he says. "We put together his new playpen and finished wrapping his gifts." He shoots me a devilish grin. "No, the uh…ADULT Christmas special didn't come until after we'd gotten everything done. And if LAST night is any indication of what TONIGHT'S Christmas special is gonna be, all I can say is, 'Santa' is gonna hafta eat ALL the cookies and milk Jimmy leaves out for him tonight." He chortles wickedly at his own innuendo.

I roll my eyes in disgust. "One more crack about your 'Christmas special,' as you call it, and I swear, I'll toss my OWN cookies." I look over at him. "And Jimmy's too young to understand the concept of leaving milk and cookies out for Santa yet. And what was wrong with the old playpen you guys had for him?"

"Well, Jean decided she didn't really like it all that well, it didn't have enough 'busy' toys in it to amuse him. It's the one that she got at a garage sale before he was born. I think she wanted a new one, since we would likely get more use out of it in the future." He waggles his eyebrows. "You know, for when the next baby comes along?"

I shake my head. "I can't believe you're even discussing having another kid so soon after having Jimmy. I mean, for God's sake, give poor Jean a break before you saddle her with another kid."

"Hey, it's not me who's discussing another baby so soon, it's Jean," he says. "The first kid is a test kid, you know."

I raise an eyebrow. "No, I don't know. And I think I kinda resent my godson being called a test kid."

"No, the first kid is always kind of a litmus test to see how well you handle parenthood. If the kid survives the first year or so without either parent having dropped it on its head, and the parents survive the first year without going completely berserk, then it's a safe bet that you can handle having a second kid sometime down the road." He nods knowingly. "Just wait until you have kids of your own, Pete, then you'll know what I'm talking about."

"I seriously doubt that the possibility of me having kids is going to happen any time within this decade," I tell him somewhat sourly.

"I take it your dinner date with Angie the other night didn't go over so well," he says.

"You'd be taking it right," I tell him, setting my mouth in a grim line.

"What happened?" he asks. "I thought you two were getting along pretty good, after the turkey incident at Macy's. You said she'd forgiven you for crashing her Halloween party."

"I'm not discussing it," I tell him firmly. "And that's final."

"Not even one little eensy bit?" he wheedles. "A teeny tiny hint?"

"No," I tell him. "No hint. Nothing. Nada. No words about my date the other night shall pass my lips tonight." I shoot him a warning look. "And don't beg and bug me anymore about it, got it? Because if you're gonna harass me all night about how my date went, I'll take you back to the station, give you to someone else, and ask Mac to assign me into an L-car."

"Fine," he says. "I'll worm it out of you before the night's over anyway, you wait and see." He looks over at me. "You still coming over tomorrow for Christmas dinner?"

"Nope," I say. "Thanks for the invite, Jim, but I'm staying home."

"Why?" he asks with dismay. "You can't spend Christmas alone in your silent apartment, it's just not right."

"I can and I will," I tell him. "You need to spend Christmas with your family, Jim, without me intruding in on it. This is Jimmy's first Christmas, so enjoy it while you can. You don't get special occasions like this more than once or twice in a lifetime."

"But, Pete, you ARE our family," he protests. "If we hadn't of wanted you there, we wouldn't have invited you. So don't feel like you're intruding or anything, you're not, I assure you."

"Look," I tell him with a sigh. "It's what I want to do, Jim. It's how I want to spend Christmas this year. By myself, alone, with no one but me, myself, and I. Okay?"

"No, it's NOT okay," he says. "You're coming over for Christmas if I hafta drag you, Pete."

I give him a dark look. "You're not dragging me anywhere, Reed. I'm staying home and enjoying a quiet holiday by myself. In fact, I'm looking forward to it. A LOT."

"But what will you eat?" he asks. "Jean's making a fabulous dinner for you, Pete, and you can't disappoint her. And Jimmy is looking forward to spending Christmas Day with his Uncle Pete, playing with his new toys. You aren't gonna let your godson down, are you?"

"Forget it, Jim, you're not guilt-tripping me into coming to your family Christmas," I tell him. "Jimmy's too young to know whether I'm there or not, and I'm sure that between your family and Jean's, you won't even miss me. Before you go home tonight, I'll give you the gifts I've gotten for Jimmy, plus the ones I got for you and Jean. They're in the trunk of my car. And as far as dinner, I won't starve. I've got stuff in the freezer I can heat up."

"Oh yeah," he says sarcastically. "TV dinners, pot pies, pizza. What a lovely Christmas dinner  _that_  will be for you, Pete. A Swanson's turkey dinner with cardboard turkey, cardboard mashed potatoes, and cardboard dessert."

"You forgot the cardboard peas and carrots," I tell him.

"Oh, is THAT what those things are?" he asks dryly. "Coulda fooled me. If you won't come for the dinner, at least come over to watch Jimmy open his presents from you."

I pretend to think about it, just so I don't hurt his feelings. Then I speak. "No, Jim, I'll pass. I really appreciate the invitation to spend Christmas with you and your family, but I'm just not up to it, okay?"

He looks at me with a sharp frown. "What is with you, anyway? Are you being some sort of Scrooge or Grinch this year?"

I sigh heavily. "No, I'm just not in the Christmas spirit this year, Reed."

"Are you having trouble with something?" he asks. "Maybe I can help."

"I'm not having trouble with anything," I tell him. "Now just drop it, because I'm not talking about it anymore."

He snaps his fingers. "I know what will cheer you up!" he says brightly.

I glance at him out of the corner of my eye. "I'm ain't even biting, pal, so don't try and bait me."

"Christmas carols!" he says with obvious delight. Then he begins singing, very badly off-key. "Jingle bells, Batman smells, Robin laid an egg! The Batmobile lost a wheel, the Joker got away, HEY!"

"Reed, please stop," I moan. "I don't need a migraine on top of the rest of my holiday woes." And as soon as I've said it, I realize my verbal error, and feel myself blanch in horror.

He stops singing and looks at me with concern. "What holiday woes, Pete?" he asks with interest.

I shake my head. "Forget I said anything, okay? I have no holiday woes, it was just a figure of speech," I lie.

"I don't believe you," he says. "And trust me, I'll find out what's bugging you before the watch is through." He studies me contemplatively. "You know what you need, Pete?" he asks.

"Ear plugs?"

"No, what you need is a good old-fashioned Christmas miracle," he tells me. "Maybe that'll bring you out of your funk."

"I don't believe in miracles," I reply. "And I'm not in a funk, Reed, I'm just not feeling very Christmas-y right now."

"You don't believe in miracles?" he asks. "How can you not?"

I shrug. "I just don't, Reed. Usually what passes for miracles can be explained in some way or another."

"What about the story of Christmas?" he asks. "Of Jesus' birth and all that."

"The Bible was written thousands of years ago," I tell him. "Who's to say that it didn't lose a lot in translation over the last few millenium?"

"That's pretty jaded," he says. "Even for you."

"Not jaded," I tell him. "Practical."

"You don't believe in miracles  _at all_?" he asks.

"No," I tell him with irritation. "And so what if I don't? I'm not the only one, you know." I hold my hand up, stopping him. "And before you begin to harp on me over that subject, drop it."

He studies me for a moment, then he looks out the passenger side window of the squad car. "You know, they were saying on the radio that it could snow tonight," he says, changing the subject. "Wouldn't that be kinda neat? If it snowed in Los Angeles? Maybe that's what you need, Pete, is snow."

"I lived in Seattle during my younger years," I tell him. "I had plenty of snow then. I don't need it now."

"What?" he gasps in mock horror. "You mean to tell me you had younger years, Pete?"

I frown. "Of course I had younger years, you idiot. What'd you think my childhood and young adult years were?"

He shrugs. "I dunno. I guess I always kinda figured you were…uh…hatched into your older years or something."

Giving him a dirty look, I start to reply, but the dispatcher interrupts me.

" _One-Adam-12, One-Adam-12, found child, St. Patrick's Catholic Church, 1225 Peace Lane. Handle code two."_

"One-Adam-12, roger," Reed says into the mike. "And our Christmas Eve shift is starting off with a whimper instead of a bang," he says. "Probably some little tyke is lost, and by the time we get there, his parents will have found him."

"Maybe," I say.

He glances over at me. "Huh, you must  _really_  be in a funk. Usually you'd have some sort of pithy remark to say. Something very sarcastic, yet funny. It livens the shift up, you know?"

"I'm all out of funny, Reed," I tell him. "Sorry to disappoint you."

* * *

… _Peter, do you remember the Christmas Eve when you, Joey Donnelly, and Tony DiAmato were the three Wise Men in the church's Christmas pageant? And you all got to squabbling over who had the more important gift for baby Jesus; the gold, the frankincense, or the myrrh? And instead of singing 'We Three Kings', the three of you proceeded to get into a nasty fistfight, right in the middle of the pageant, and you ended up knocking poor Virgin Mary, her Holy Infant, and one of the sheep off of the stage? And the Holy Infant's head popped off and rolled around on the ground, at which point you stopped fighting long enough to look at what you'd done, and then you said to the audience, 'Uh-oh, I think we just crucified Jesus LONG before he was supposed to die!" And the pageant had to end there, because three of the shepherds, most of the livestock, and Sister Marguerite were all crying, while everyone else was laughing? That was certainly the Christmas pageant to remember, since after it was all said and done, you'd bloodied Tony DiAmato's nose, busted Joey Donnelly's lip, gotten a black eye yourself, and pretty much ruined the whole thing with that fight._

… _Yes, Mom, I remember that Christmas Eve and the pageant that we ruined. And I remember seeing you and Dad sitting in the pew, watching, a horrified look on your face, while Dad's face was boiling hot with anger. And he took the belt to me when we got home, whipping me and cussing me out good, leaving welts so bad on my backside that I couldn't sit down for nearly two days afterwards. And I remember him telling me I must have bad blood inside of me, since no son of his would've acted that way in church in front of all those people. But yet when he retold the story to his drinking buddies, he sounded downright proud that his son had kicked the snot out of Joey Donnelly and Tony DiAmato. And I remember him taking away all my presents from under the tree for extra punishment, so I wouldn't have anything to open on Christmas Day. He wasn't going to let me have them back, either, until you interceded. I always wondered what that cost you, Mom. Because I know what it cost me: my trust in him that he wasn't going to give me something that he couldn't take away from me whenever he felt like it. Yeah, Mom, I remember that Christmas Eve all too well…_

* * *

"Are you going to Christmas Eve services tonight, Pete?" Reed asks on the way over to the church.

"No, I'm not," I tell him.

"You wanna come with us? We're going to the midnight service at our church, providing that we finish our watch in time."

"No thanks," I tell him.

"You should go to SOME sort of service, Pete, it's not right to skip church on Christmas Eve," he tells me.

"What are you, my mother?" I ask a bit snidely. "I haven't been to church in years, Reed, let alone Christmas Eve services. And I'm not about to start now."

"But still, even if you haven't been to church in years, your faith should hold some sort of meaning for you," he says. "Maybe you just need to rediscover it."

"My faith is my business," I tell him. "For me, religion is a bunch of empty rituals designed to comfort its followers, lulling them into a false sense of security and complacency that when they die, they will be whisked off to Heaven, where they will spend the rest of Eternity floating among clouds and strumming harps."

He looks at me in surprise. "Whoa, you sound pretty bitter, Pete."

"I'm entitled to it," I tell him. "I have yet to witness anything to make me believe otherwise."

"But faith is what gets us through the bad times," he says. "It's there when we need it, Pete, even if it's hidden away sometimes."

"Look, I lost my faith a looong time ago," I tell him. "And once lost, it's pretty hard to find again."

"Have you tried looking for it?" he asks.

"Reed, it's not like it's a lost pair of socks or a missing hat. It's not gonna turn up in a lost-and-found box somewhere, nor is it going to magically reappear in the bottom of your sock drawer," I tell him. "It's gone, it's not coming back, and I really don't care."

"You should," he says. "You should care, Pete."

"Why?" I ask. "Do I look like someone who is going to be kneeling by my bedside every night, counting on my rosary beads and praying to God to shed a beacon of light in order to help me find my lost faith?" I look over at him. "Do I?"

"No, but what will you depend on when you need it the most?" he asks. "When you need your faith to guide you through a crisis?"

"I'll depend on the same thing I've always depended on: myself," I tell him.

"But you need something stronger, Pete," he protests. "For when the times really get tough."

"Jim," I sigh. "I've been through a LOT of tough times over the years. And trust me, it hasn't been my faith that's kept me going, it's been my determination and strength. I don't need faith, religion, or a bunch of ritualistic mumbo-jumbo to tell me how to live my life. Got it?"

"But…"

"Drop it," I command. "No more religious discussion, okay? You believe what you wanna believe and I'll believe what I wanna believe."

He stares at me for a moment, then he sighs. "Fine. I still say you need a miracle or two to make you see the light."

"I don't need a miracle or two, I don't need anything," I tell him. "I just want to get through this watch without having any problems." I give him a pointed look. "Or lectures."

"So tell me," he says. "Is it just Christmas that makes you this grumpy, or will you be irritable around Easter, too?"

"Why?"

"Because if you're gonna be grouchy over Easter, I'm taking my vacation that week," he says. "I'm not gonna have you ruin that holiday for me."

"I'm not trying to ruin any holiday for you, Reed," I tell him as I pull into the parking lot of St. Patrick's Catholic Church.

"Coulda fooled me," he says. "But you know, I'm not letting your pissy mood get me down. No sirree. Misery may love company, but your misery is gonna have to be miserable all by its lonesome."

As we get out of the squad car and walk up to the church, the icy wind nips sharply at our ears. I glance up at the grey clouds scudding by overhead, and wonder if Reed's prediction of snow might indeed come true. I flip the collar of my coat up to keep the wind from chasing down my neck. The atmosphere has the peculiar tang of metal in the air, and as we climb the steps to the church, I'm reminded of the winter days of my childhood in Seattle. I tug on the massive heavy oak doors of the church, welcoming the warmth as we step inside.

Incense and stale perfume, along with the smell of crisply starched linens and candle wax greet us as we stop inside the vestibule, taking off our caps respectfully. Various ladies from the church's societies bustle about, preparing the church for its candlelight Mass at midnight. I peer through the doors to the sanctuary, where at the front, a Christmas pageant involving kids from the parochial school is going through its dress rehearsal, while a choir dressed in street clothes run through their songs one last time. The sanctuary is brightly lit from the inside, the pale watery light from outside doing little justice to the ornate stained glass windows. Several of the society ladies are whisking about in the pews, cleaning the wooden seats off and restocking hymnals and Bibles in the holders at the backs of each pew. Candles flicker brightly on the penny candle stand, and the golden candleabra on the altar fairly glows in the effervescent light.

"Gives me goosebumps," Reed says, as he shivers next to me. "I'll bet this place is gorgeous when it's lit up with just candles."

"Most churches are," I tell him. "And it's not all candlelight, Reed. They do leave some lights on, they're just dimmed down."

"I've never been in a Catholic church," he says.

"It's the same as every other church," I say. "We just have more doodads and geegaws than most."

"Isn't that a bit sacreligious?" he asks. "Calling the articles of your faith doodads and geegaws?"

I shoot him a dark look. "It's not anything, Reed. Now let's find out where this kid is at." I approach a matronly-looking woman in a red pantsuit who is putting the church Christmas programs into a basket. "Excuse me, ma'am," I say. "We got a call to this address for a found child. Is the child still here?"

She turns to us, smiling. "Oh yes, Officer, you need to go right through those doors there," she says, pointing to a set of double doors off to our right. "That's where Father Vincente is at with the baby."

"Thank you," I tell her.

"You're very welcome," she says brightly. "And you two Officers have a merry Christmas now, okay?"

"We certainly will," Reed advises her, as he follows me through the double doors. "At least I will," he says, but only I hear it.

The church priest is sitting behind a dark wooden desk, while a pretty, black- haired young woman in her mid-twenties is sitting on a nearby chair, a small bundle wrapped in blue blankets cuddled in her arms. Both look up as we enter. "Hello, Officers," Father Vincente says, standing up and coming around the edge of the desk to shake our hands. "I'm Father Vincente and this is Mrs. Eileen Kelly. I'm glad you got here so quickly. It seems that we have had a living addition to our outdoor crèche on the front lawn of our church this afternoon."

"I'm Officer Malloy and this is my partner, Officer Reed," I tell him. "What exactly happened here?" I pull my notebook out of my uniform pocket.

"Well, as you can see, we're in the process of getting the church ready for the pageant and the Midnight Mass tonight," he says. "I was in here putting the finishing touches on my sermon, when Mrs. Kelly came in and asked me to come outside and look at something in the crèche. I was afraid that the crèche had been vandalized, like it has been in the past, but instead, where the plastic Baby Jesus should have been at, there was this baby." He gestures to the tiny bundle in Mrs. Kelly's arms. "Of course, we brought the little tyke in right away, but there wasn't anything with him to identify him, or who even left him there in the first place."

"He's not very old," Mrs. Kelly tells us, smiling a bit sadly. "Poor little thing. All he has with him is his blanket and his little footie pajamas. Nothing else."

"Have you spoken with any of the church members who are here?" I ask. "See if any of them witnessed anything out of the ordinary before the baby was found?"

"I've spoken with the ladies who've been present getting the church ready for tonight," he says. "And none of them have seen anything."

"How about any of the ones who attended the noon Mass?" I ask.

"I've spoken with a couple of them," he says. "According to them, the crèche was in its normal state, with the plastic Jesus in the manger, when they arrived before Mass, and it was in the same state when they left. One of the ladies, Beatrice McCallum, is quite sure of it. She and her husband donated parts of the crèche a couple of years ago, and ever since it was vandalized last year, she keeps a pretty close eye on it. So the baby had to be placed in the manger after the noon Mass, but before we started getting the church ready for tonight."

"I know this is going to sound like a prying question, but do you have any pregnant mothers in the parish who might have recently given birth, and placed the baby in the manger because they couldn't care for him?" I ask.

Father Vincente shakes his head. "No, we have a few expectant mothers, yes, but none that would do anything like that," he says.

"This is another prying question, I know, but I need to ask it," I tell him. "Have you counselled any unwed and pregnant mothers in the last few months?"

He shakes his head again. "No, I'm sorry, but I haven't. Our parish is affiliated with Sacred Heart Outreach, and we refer any member, or even non-member who might come to us seeking help, to that program. They're better equipped to guide frightened mothers-to-be in the right direction when it comes to deciding what to do with their babies."

"Poor little thing," Mrs. Kelly coos. "He's been such a good baby. Not a peep since we brought him inside."

"And there wasn't anything at all with him, other than the blanket and pajamas?" I ask.

"No, nothing," she says. "Both Father and I looked all around, thinking that maybe the wind might have blown any kind of a note off of him, but there was nothing."

"I'll call for the detectives," Reed says. "Get them en route out here. I'll also call Juvenile division and have them send someone out to pick the baby up." He looks at Father Vincente. "May I please use your phone?"

"Sure, go ahead," Father Vincente tells Reed.

"There's nothing else that either of you can tell me?" I ask. "Anything that you can think of that might help us find out who he is and who his parents are?"

Both Mrs. Kelly and Father Vincente shake their heads. "I'm really sorry, Officer, that we can't be of more help," Father Vincente says. "But it's just like he dropped into that crèche out of the blue, you know? Like he fell from Heaven."

"He was probably put there by a young mother who was frightened and didn't know what else to do," I tell him, tucking my notebook away. "At least he wasn't dumped into a garbage dumpster. Or worse yet, killed."

"What will happen to him?" Mrs. Kelly asks.

"Well, an officer from our Juvenile Division will be out to pick him up. He'll be taken to a hospital, where he'll be checked over for any injuries or illnesses, and if he's okay, he'll likely be taken to McLaren Hall, until either his parents can be found or he's identified."

"What's McLaren Hall?" Mrs. Kelly asks. "Is that some sort of orphanage?"

"No, it's a facility that takes in abandoned, abused, and neglected children," I tell her. "They're cared for at McLaren Hall until the courts can decide what to do with them. Usually from there, they go into a system of foster care, if they can't be returned to their parents, or their parents give up their rights to their children."

"Is it a nice place?" she asks hopefully, since most people don't like to think that a juvenile facility is usually a cold and austere place for kids.

"It's a place for kids to go when they don't have anywhere else," I tell her. "Admittedly, it's not a cozy, happy place, but at least the children are well-cared for. They're fed and clothed, they have a bed to sleep in at night, they receive their education. It's better than nothing."

"I suppose," she says. "But you know, this little guy looks like he was well-cared for before he was abandoned," she says. "His blanket was clean, and so were his pajamas. Someone must have cared at least a little bit about him."

Reed comes back over. "The detectives are on their way," he says. "Along with Juvenile. Mac wants us to wait until Juvenile shows up to take custody of the baby."

"What will the detectives do?" asks Father Vincente.

"They'll interview the church members who were here for the noon Mass," he says. "They'll also probably conduct a canvass of the area to see if any of the neighbors saw anything out of the ordinary." He looks over at Mrs. Kelly. "About how old do you think he is?" he asks.

"Not more than a couple of months," she says. She stands up, carrying the bundled baby over to Reed. "Would you like to see him?" she asks, smiling.

"Sure," Reed replies.

She flips the edge of the blanket down to reveal the infant tucked inside. "He's such a tiny little thing. So quiet, like a little mouse." She offers him to Reed. "Would you like to hold him?"

"Definitely!" Reed tells her, a high-voltage grin plastered on his face. "I have a little boy of my own at home."

She carefully hands him off to Reed. "How old is your little boy?" she asks.

"Six months," Reed tells her proudly. "Hey little guy," he coos at the baby. "You're kind of a little mystery baby, aren't you? Your name wouldn't happen to be Jesus, would it?"

"That's what we were joking about earlier," Father Vincente says with a laugh.

Reed brings the baby over to me, turning him so that I can see the little bundle. "Would you like to hold him, Pete?" he asks. "He's pretty cute."

I gaze down at the baby in my partner's arms. He lies there quietly, eyeing me with a lazy contentment, a lock of downy blonde hair curled upon his forehead. His eyes are a piercing dark blue, the pupils nearly invisible in the indigo color. He holds my gaze without any fear, and staring at this small baby wrapped in a blue flannel blanket, I feel a sense of strange awe, as if his spirit is tugging at mine. He gives me a calm smile. I feel like he can see within the depths of my soul, and it frightens me a bit, for some strange reason. Suddenly I feel a little trapped, and I need to get out of this room, with its crucifixes on the wall depicting Christ's suffering, with the friendly priest, with the young woman who could be a dark-haired Madonna figure, and my partner, who is holding the unearthly child in his arms. "No thanks," I tell Reed. "I'm going out and get the report book out of the car." And I turn on my heel and flee, shoving the heavy oaken doors open to the outside, breathing a sigh of relief as the icy wind stings my face, cooling me, calming me. I walk slowly to the squad car, my feet crunching on the gravel. I retrieve the black report book from the car, and start reluctantly back towards the church.  _Just relax, Pete, it's only a baby. A poor little baby that no one wanted and decided to dump here. It's not a sign from God or anything outlandish like that. And it sure as hell ain't the Baby Jesus, because there's no Wise Men, no barnyard animals, and no Mary and Joseph. Not to mention you're missing the Star of the East. And besides, you're the one who doesn't have faith, who doesn't believe in miracles,_  I tell myself.

Traffic whizzes by on the street, and out of curiosity, I make my way over to the crèche the child was found in, looking around for anything that would give some sort of clue as to who he is and how he wound up there. I find nothing in the dried brown grass, or around the plastic light-up figures of the Nativity scene. I study the scene for a moment, the icy wind chilling me, then I return to the church, climbing the steps once more and pulling open the heavy oak door. I start to go back to the office, but I hesitate. I don't want to go back in there, for a reason I can't begin to explain to myself, so I slip into the sanctuary instead, sliding into one of the back pews. I really should go tell Reed where I'm at, but I open the report book instead, propping it up on my knee. I begin to write out the tale of the abandoned baby. I try to concentrate on getting the report filled out, but my attention wanders from my handwriting on the page, to the activity at the front of the sanctuary. Losing focus on the words before me, I give up, my scribbling a blur on the white page. Setting the report book on the pew next to me, I watch the pageant rehearsal instead, as the choir begins to practice Handel's "The Hallelujah Chorus," the choir director tapping his stand with his baton, and the organist launching into the beginning of the song.

 _…Hallelujah! Hallelujah! Hallelujah!…_ the choir begins.

Under a cardboard overhang painted as realistically as possible to look like a rustic stable, the stage is completely set up as a life-size nativity scene, complete with bales of hay, three Wise Men in bathrobes, camels, sheep, a donkey, a cow, shepherds, Joseph, and of course, the stars of the show, Virgin Mary and Jesus Christ. Hanging from the cardboard stable, a bright tinfoil star is the Star of the East, while below, there is dissension among the ranks. The contingent of children in the pageant is giving the directing nun fits.

"Sister Agnetha, I don't wanna be Mary With The Cherry," wails a little girl of about ten in pigtails and and a blue nightgown and matching bathrobe.

"Now Donna, you're not Mary With The Cherry, you're VIRGIN Mary,"the nun scolds. "Who told you that nonsense?"

The little girl points to a boy dressed as a shepherd. "Matt Guiness told me that," she said.

The shepherd shrugs. "It's what my older brother calls her," he says. "What's so wrong about that? It's just a hipper name for Virgin Mary."

"It's NOT a hipper name for our Blessed Virgin," the nun snaps. "It's a vulgar, filthy name, and I will not have you, or any of the rest of you, using it!"

… _For the Lord God omnipotent reignith…_ the choir continues.

"I don't wanna hold this stupid doll anymore," the mini-Mary says, stamping her foot. She holds the Holy Infant upside down by his foot and shakes him vigorously. "His head falls off. And when I tried to get him to drink water from my doll bottle, he peed out of his leg holes." She whacks him quite soundly against her leg, causing his head to indeed, fall off and roll around on the floor. "See?" she says. "Plus he's butt nekkid, Sister Agnetha."

The shepherds have spotted the Holy Infant's head rolling about and decide to play a rousing game of stickball with it. Using their shepherd's crooks as sticks, they engage in a rather lively game of whacking baby Jesus' head around the floor in the front of the sanctuary. "He shoots, he scores!" one of them yells when Jesus' head hits the penny candle stand.

"Hey, I wanna try!" one of what I assume to be a Wise Man says.

"Children, PLEASE!" Sister Agnetha tells them. "Let's not use our Saviour's head as a ball!" She grabs the head of Jesus as it rolls past her. "Now stop that this instant and get back to your places immediately!" Sheepishly, the shepherds return to the stage.

 _…And of His Christ, and of His Christ; He shall reign forever and ever…_ the choir sings on.

"Sister, my robe REALLY itches," complains one of the Wise Men, and proceeds to vigorously scratch himself in a rather private place.

"Kenny's got cooties!" one of the sheep cries, eliciting a chorus of "EWWW's" from the other children.

"I don't wanna be the one to bring Frankenberry to Baby Jesus," says one of the other Wise Men. "How about if I bring him a Hot Wheels instead?"

"Stop whacking me with your stupid wings!" whines one of the angels, giving the offending whacking angel a healthy shove.

"Sister, tell the donkey not to blow his nose on my robe, it's really icky," complains a wee angel.

"Why can't my Mrs. Beasley doll be Baby Jesus?" asks Mary. "If you pull her string, she talks."

"Oh, my Chatty Cathy does that, too," remarks one of the angels.

"My Betsy Wetsy pees when you feed her water," says another angel.

"Hey Sister Agnetha, are we Wise MEN or Wise GUYS?" asks one of the other Wise Men. He jabs the third Wise Man. "Ooh, wise guy, eh?" he says, launching into a Three Stooges routine. "Nyuck nyuck nyuck."

"Sister Agnetha, I need to make tinkle," says one of the tiniest angels.

"I don't wanna be Joseph anymore, he's stupid," says Joseph. "I wanna be Spiderman instead."

BLAAT! farts a rather flat-sounding horn. "Oh Angel Gabriel, come blow your horn, the sheep's in the meadow, the cows in the corn," sings Angel Gabriel.

"I'm not in the meadow, I'm right here," says the cow. "MOOOO!"

 _…King of kings, and Lord of lords, King of kings, and Lord of lords…_ the choir sings, launching into the final chorus, fairly drowning out the voices from the kids on the stage.  _Hallelujah! Hallelujah! Hallelujah!..._

"What are you doing sitting in here, Pete?" Reed asks, his sudden appearance causing me to jump a bit with startlement. He slides into the pew next to me. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong," I say hastily. "I just got sidetracked, that's all."

"You were watching that pageant rehearsal like you were lost in a memory," he says. "Did you play in the Christmas pageant as a kid?"

I nod. "Yeah, I was a sheep first, then a shepherd, then a Wise Man. Then I quit being in the pageant," I tell him.

"Why?" he asks.

 _Because I got into a fight with the other two Wise Men and ruined the pageant, thus earning myself a whipping so fierce that I couldn't sit down for two days,_  I think. "I got too old for it," I tell Reed, lying to him.

"I was always a shepherd, until I got to be Joseph one year," he says. "After that, I retired on my laurels." He nods to the kids on the stage. "They're sure giving that poor nun trouble, aren't they?"

The choir segues into "Silent Night." … _Silent night, holy night…_

"Yeah," I say. "Has Juvenile showed up yet to take the baby?"

He shakes his head. "No, they haven't. Neither have the detectives."

"Oh, Officer Reed, there you are," says Mrs. Kelly, coming down the red aisle runner to where we're seated at. She's still holding the baby in her arms. "Could you please take him for me for just a few moments? I need to use the restroom and then call my husband, let him know I might be late getting home. The detectives have arrived and Father Vincente is speaking with them now. I thought I'd give them a bit of privacy."

"Sure," Reed says, holding his hands out for the little blue bundle. "We'll be right here."

"Thank you so much," she says gratefully, handing the baby over to Reed, then she hurries off.

"I can't imagine why anyone would dump a cute little guy like this," Reed says, gazing rapturously at the tiny infant. He rubs a gentle thumb across the baby's forehead. "I look at him and I'm reminded of Jimmy so much," he says quietly. "I can't picture just dumping my child like he was nothing more than a sack of garbage. I love him too much to do that tho him, Pete." His voice holds a twinge of choked emotion in it.

I keep my eyes focused on the pageant and the choir. If I can't see his emotions, he can't see mine. "It's your paternal instinct," I tell him. "But some parents don't have that. That's why we have so many abused and neglected kids in the system now." I lean forward, resting my forearms on the back of the pew in front of me. I put my chin atop them.

_…All is calm, all is bright…_

"Yeah, but if the mother and father didn't want him, why didn't they take him to an orphanage or something?" Reed asks. "Why dump him in the cold, outside a church, in a Nativity scene? That seems like a really cruel and callous thing to do to a helpless child." He smiles down at the little boy. "Isn't it?" he coos, getting a happy gurgle in response.

"Maybe it's the only thing the parents could think to do," I say. "Maybe they were desperate and afraid, and didn't know where to turn or to go with him, so they just put him there, in the manger, hoping that someone would notice him and rescue him."

"What if they hadn't noticed him? What if they hadn't rescued him in time, Pete?" Reed asks.

"I don't wanna think of that," I say, sitting back in the pew.

_…'Round yon Virgin Mother and Child…_

"Me neither," Reed says softly, gazing at the baby. "Here, Pete, you take him for a bit," he says.

"Uh…no," I say hastily. "He's happy in your arms, Jim, leave him be."

"Pete, please," Reed says, and there's something in his tone of voice that pricks at me, drawing me in against my will. "Just hold him for a moment, okay?"

"Fine," I sigh, holding my arms out as Reed settles the tiny bundle into them. I look down at the baby, who gazes back at me with those piercing blue eyes. "Hey there," I murmur gently to him.

_…Holy Infant, so tender and mild…_

"See?" Reed asks. "He's not so bad now, is he?"

"No," I tell him. "He's not." I stroke an index finger across his downy cheek and over his delicate fist. His tiny hand opens and he grasps my finger with a surprisingly strong grip in his wee fingers. Never taking his gaze from mine, he offers me that strange, knowing smile again. I feel a tugging deep within my soul once more, and there's a buzzing sensation in my brain. It feels like electricity is coursing and tingling through my body, and I feel the hair on the back of my neck stand up. A heavy lassitude seeps through my blood, and I feel warm, feverish, as if I'm coming down with something. I cannot pull my eyes away from the baby's, nor can I take my finger from his grasp. He and I are locked together in some strange form of communion.

… _Sleep in heavenly peace; sleep in heavenly peace…_

"Hey Pete," Reed says, his voice sounding as if he's far away. "Maybe this is your miracle, huh?" he asks. Then I hear nothing else, other than the choir singing through the roaring in my ears.

… _Silent night, holy night,_

_Shepherds quake, at the sight._

_Glories stream from heaven a-far,_

_Heavenly hosts sing Hallelujah;_

_Christ the Savior is born;_

_Christ the Savior is born…_

"Pete!" Reed shakes me gently by the shoulder, abruptly bringing me out of the odd spell. "Are you alright?" He's looking at me with concern.

"Huh?" I ask, blinking. "What? Oh, yeah, I'm okay," I tell him, my blood and bones still filled with that heavy lassitude. My voice sounds hollow, tinny.

"Are you sure?" he asks, bending forward and peering into my face. "You looked really weird there for a moment." He holds his arms out. "Maybe you'd better give the baby back to me, okay?"

"Nuh-uh," I murmur, still gazing at the baby. "I've got him. He's fine."

"Is this the little one that was found abandoned?" asks our Juvenile officer, Liz Grant, striding up the aisle towards us. She's a cheerful blonde woman with a decidedly motherly air. We've worked with her before, and she's really good with kids.

Reed slides out, grabbing the report book. "Hi Liz," he says. "It's a sad situation that we had to call you out on here this afternoon. Poor little guy was dumped in the church nativity scene out front. One of the parish ladies found him and informed the priest, who called us." Reed looks down at me, still sitting in the pew with the baby in my arms. "I think you're gonna have a hard time getting him away from Pete here," he says, laughing. "I think he's gotten attached to the little guy pretty fast."

Carefully, I slide out of the pew so as not to jostle the baby, who now has his eyes closed and appears to be sleeping. "He does grow on you," I tell them.

"Well, I'll take him now, Pete," Liz tells me, holding her hands out for the baby. "We've got a spot already lined up for him at McLaren Hall if he checks out okay at the hospital. Hopefully his parents can be located soon. If not, the court will make him a temporary ward of the state until they can decide what to do with him."

"Won't they place him up for adoption?" Reed asks.

She nods. "Yes, most likely," she says.

"Pete, give her the baby," Reed says, nudging me. "So we can get back on the air."

Reluctantly, I hand the tiny bundle over to Liz Grant. As the baby leaves my arms, he opens his eyes once more and fixes me with that piercing gaze. I feel a lump come into my throat. "Take good care of him, okay?" I ask, my voice a bit raspy. "I have a feeling he's kind of a special kid or something."

"Pete, you know he'll get the best care possible at McLaren," Liz assures me.

"Yeah, but McLaren Hall is no match for caring parents," I tell her, my voice tinged with bitterness.

"There isn't anywhere else he can go, Pete," Reed tells me gently. "This is for the best."

"Tell you what, Pete, why don't you call McLaren in a day or so and check up on him, if you're that concerned?" Liz offers. "You could even stop by, if you wanted to." The baby begins to fuss a bit in her arms.

"Yeah, maybe," I say. "I'll see."

"Well, you two have a merry Christmas," she tells us as she starts towards the vestibule with the baby in her arms. He begins to wail, his cries echoing throughout the church sanctuary, bringing a halt to the activity at the front of the church. Liz coos reassuringly to him as she leaves, but the sounds of his wails resound long after the heavy oak doors swing shut behind her. The sound stabs through my heart like a razor-sharp knife dipped in acid. I close my eyes briefly, willing the strange ache in my chest to go away, then I open them, determined to shake off this weird mood that has settled over me.

"That was sure something," Reed comments, as the activity on the stage resumes. The choir takes a break, watching the kids on the stage run through their rehearsal. "You and that baby."

"What do you mean?" I ask. I start walking up the red aisle runner towards the oak doors.

"I dunno, it's hard to describe," he says. "You had this really strange look on your face while you were holding that baby, like you and he were the only two beings on this planet or something."

"I guess I was thinking how sad it was that no one wanted him," I say, truly unable and unwilling to describe my experience to Jim Reed. "And how lucky he was that someone found him in time. That's all."

"Yeah, maybe," he says, a note of skepticism in his voice.

"Do the dicks need us for anything further?" I ask, my hand on the handle of the heavy oak door.

He shakes his head. "Nah, they said we could go back in service."

"Good," I say, shoving the door open and stepping out into the chilly metallic air. "Let's blow this pop stand."

"You want me to finish the report or do you wanna do it?" he asks as we get into the squad car.

"You can do it," I tell him. "Consider it my Christmas gift to you."

"Gee, thanks," he says sarcastically. He flips open the report book. "Uh…hey, Pete?" he asks hesitantly.

"What?" I ask, getting ready to back the squad car out.

"You ruined this report," he says.

"Huh?" I ask, putting the car back into park. "Whaddaya mean I ruined the report? I started it, I just didn't finish it."

He gazes at the report in front of him. "I dunno exactly WHAT it was you started, but it sure wasn't a report, Pete." He thrusts the report book at me. "Take a look for yourself."

I take it from him, scanning the pages of the report.  _Male infant, approx. 2 mos. old, found outside in church nativity scene at St. Patrick's Catholic Church. PR states child was evidently placed into the manger sometime after noon Mass. PR is Father Vincente, parish priest, and Mrs. Eileen Kelly…_  The report stops at that point, and only three words follow afterwards:  _BELIEVE IN MIRACLES._ The words are written in my handwriting, but I don't remember writing them at all. "I don't get it," I say, staring at the words before me. "I don't remember writing those words, Jim."

"But you had to, Pete, it's your handwriting," he says.

I look up at him, my uneasy gaze meeting his. "It must be a fluke," I say, handing him the report book. "Maybe I wasn't paying attention to what I was writing, and incorporated some of the song lyrics that the choir was singing into the report or something."

"Maybe," he says skeptically. "And maybe it was a tiny miracle of sorts."

Sighing, I shake my head. I put the car into reverse. "Reed, trust me, there's no such thing as miracles." And as I tell him that, I can't get rid of the hinky feeling that I'm wrong, and that fact is going to be proven to me sometime yet tonight.

 


	2. All I Want For Christmas Is...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **ALL ORIGINAL CONTENT OF THIS STORY IS THE SOLE PROPERTY OF BAMBOOZLEPIG AND MAY NOT BE USED WITHOUT PERMISSION.** In order to enhance the overall plot experience, creative liberties may have been intentionally taken with the real-life protocols depicted herein.

_ALL I WANT FOR CHRISTMAS IS…_

… _Peter, do you remember the Christmas that your dad was away at war, fighting overseas in Germany, and you wanted a Daisy air rifle for Christmas, so you could be a soldier just like your dad was? And you made me take you to see Santa Claus three times at Brookdale's Department Store, just so you were sure he got the message that that was the only present you wanted? You even took along a picture of the exact model you wanted that you'd cut out of the catalog. And you wrote Santa four letters asking the same thing, and each night before you went to bed, you begged the Lord to see fit to grant you an air rifle for Christmas. That was all you wanted, you didn't want anything else. No baseball, no wagon, no train set, no comic books. No, you had your little heart set on that air rifle, and it just tore me to pieces when I knew I couldn't afford to get you one that year. I tried to scrimp and save, but keeping a roof over our heads and food in our stomachs was more important than a BB gun. But it broke my heart to pieces when I went into the toy store to get your gifts, and all I could get you was a sack of marbles, a coloring book and crayons, and a little penny racer. I know you were sorely disappointed that Christmas Day when you came downstairs and didn't find your BB gun under the tree, but you went ahead and opened what little you had in the way of gifts, and you came and gave me a big hug and kiss, and told me you were happy to have gotten a bag of marbles, thinking that I couldn't see the tears rolling down your cheeks. But I did, Son, I did. And after you went upstairs to play quietly in your room, I went into the kitchen and cried until I couldn't cry anymore, cursing the war, your father's absence, our poverty, the Lord…yes, I even cursed God, Peter, because I knew it had hurt you…but most of all, I cursed myself, for failing as a mother to give her son the one thing he wanted for Christmas._

… _Yes, Mom, I remember that Christmas that Dad was overseas, fighting in the war. Even though I really didn't understand what war was at that age, I was really proud of my dad for being so big and brave, and I thought of that every time I saw that blue star hanging in our picture window. That's why I wanted the BB gun so badly, so that I could pretend to be a soldier, just like my dad. And it wasn't just a Daisy air rifle I wanted, it was a genuine Red Ryder carbine-action 200 shot BB gun with a compass in the stock and a sundial to tell time. And Tony DiAmato lorded it over us that HE got an air rifle for Christmas, while I all got was the sack of marbles. I ended up losing more than half of the marbles to Tony in a game I swear was rigged, and on a dare from me, Joey Donnelly ate the rest. He was sick for two days with a stomachache, plus his mother had to make sure the marbles had passed. No wonder she didn't like me that much for a long time afterwards. It wasn't until I got older that I realized how much it must have bothered you to not be able to get me a BB gun that year. All I knew was the bitter taste of disappointment in my mouth when I told you I was grateful for the marbles and the rest of my gifts. And then I went upstairs to my bedroom and cried until I couldn't cry anymore, and then I made a vow: I didn't believe in Santa anymore, and I was beginning to really wonder about believing in God. So yeah, Mom, I remember that Christmas, well enough to have mentioned it once to my patrol partner, Jim Reed, when we were commiserating over a little boy named Harvey who wanted a yellow dump truck for Christmas..._

* * *

"Do you suppose that the baby's parents will be found?" Reed asks me.

I shrug. "Maybe. Maybe not."

"If they do turn up, I'll betcha ten to one that the court system will award custody of him back to his birth parents," he says, a slight bitter edge to his voice.

"No bet," I tell him. "It's highly likely they will. The parents will probably go before the judge and give some bullshit song-and-dance about how they made a big mistake, and they've learned from it, and they promise they'll be good parents to the kid, if only the judge'll let 'em have the baby back. And he'll grant them custody, and they'll take the kid home and care for him, until they get tired of him, and then they'll either dump him once more or abuse him in some way."

"But, on the other hand, maybe they'll change their ways and make a good life for the kid, who knows?" Reed says.

Sighing, I rub the bridge of my nose. "Look, Jim, you know as well as I do that the chances of that miracle happening are slim to none. The baby and his parents will fall into the vicious cycle of abuse, neglect, and the child welfare system. And by the time that kid's eighteen, he'll have likely lived in 15 different foster homes, along with stints at McLaren Hall. And then HE'LL fall into the same pattern when he has kids of his own. It's a never-ending circle and you know it, Jim. We've seen it before, we'll sure as hell see it again."

"Yeah, but abandoning a baby that small?" he says. "Why didn't the mother give him up for adoption right after he was born?"

"Maybe she thought she could handle it," I say. "Maybe the support system she thought she had in place ended up abandoning her, so she abandoned him." I glance over at him. "It could've been worse," I tell him. "He could've been a newborn infant, you know."

He looks over at me. "Have you had to deal with something like that?" he asks. "Finding a newborn baby dumped somewhere?"

"Yeah," I tell him. "It's happened a few times, actually."

He falls silent for a moment, then he speaks. "I don't think I wanna hear those stories, Pete. Not tonight, anyway."

"Good," I say. "Because I wasn't going to tell you."

"Well," he says. "Since this subject is entirely depressing to dicuss, or even think about, I'm changing the subject."

"Fine by me," I tell him.

"What'd you get Jimmy for Christmas?" he asks.

"Don't you wanna be surprised yourself when you open his gifts for him?" I ask.

"Nope, I hafta make sure that they pass the Jim Reed safety inspection," he says.

"Safety inspection?" I ask. "What, do you think I'm honestly going to get my godson something that he could get hurt with?"

"I dunno," he says warily. "One of Jean's ditzy friends got him a Lite-Brite. As if he can play with that right now at the age of six months."

"This wouldn't happen to be one of Jean's friends that you've tried setting me up with, would it?" I ask.

"Uh…no," he says. "I honestly like you too much to inflict Phyllis on you. One date with her and I'm afraid she'd scare you off of dating for good." He pokes me in the shoulder with his index finger. "So now about Jimmy's gifts. What'd ya get him?"

"I got him a container of big plastic blocks," I tell him. "Plus a teddy bear. A couple of picture books…"

"Ooh, about what?" he interrupts.

"Why?" I ask, eyeballing him. "Don't you trust my judgement?"

"No, I might wanna look at them myself," he replies. "A good picture book can be endlessly fascinating, you know."

I stare at him for a moment. "No, I wouldn't know," I say. "Not having read a picture book since I was three. I've found I've pretty much graduated to adult books, Reed. You know, the ones with actual words in them?"

"Hmm, there's those pithy remarks I was looking for earlier," he says. "Maybe your mood is lightening up, huh?"

"I highly doubt it," I tell him.

"Even after the incident with the baby?" he asks.

"Why would that lighten my mood?"

"I dunno, you just seemed really weird back there at the church while you were holding him," he says. "It's like something came over you, especially when he smiled at you. You had this look of…of…awe, I guess I'd call it, on your face."

"It was probably gas," I say.

He stares at me for a very long moment. "Uh…Pete? Dare I ask, if it's gas, do I want to be riding around in an enclosed squad car with you for the next few hours?" he asks, deadpan, then he cracks up, hooting with laughter and pounding the dashboard with a fist.

I feel myself redden with embarassment. "Oh, knock it off, you idiot," I tell him sharply. "You know I meant the baby probably had gas, not me. That's what made him smile."

"Oh God," he gasps, wiping tears from his eyes. "That was so freakin' funny! You walked right into that without even thinking!" And he starts laughing again, doubling over in the seat.

"Will you knock it the hell off?" I snap. "Jesus Christ, we're adults, Reed, not eight-year-olds. Grow up."

"Man, that was a good one, Pete," he says, leaning back in the seat and trying to catch his breath. "You don't often slip up verbally like that, but when you do, it's a doozy. And you can bet I'm not gonnna forget this for a loooong time."

I roll my eyes. "I'm sure you won't," I tell him. "Don't you wanna know what the last thing is that I got Jimmy for Christmas?"

"Ooh, yeah, tell me!" he says. "Wait, you never told me what the picture books were about, Pete."

"One is about dogs and the other is about cars," I tell him. I clear my throat, glancing at Reed, who has settled back in his seat, gazing at me with an expectant look. "I got him a hundred dollar savings bond," I tell him.

His eyebrows shoot off of his head. "You got him WHAT?" he asks in shock.

"I got him a savings bond," I say once more. "I know it's not anything he can play with or really use right now, but I figured that if you want, later on down the road, you can invest it and maybe put the money towards his college fund."

"You didn't have to do that, Pete," he says softly, in awe. "That's a little too much."

I shrug. "He's my godson," I say simply. "I want my godson to have a good education. The burden of paying for college shouldn't fall all onto your shoulders and Jean's."

"But Pete, a hundred dollars, that's quite a bit," he says. "I'm sure you coulda used it for something for yourself."

"I did use it for myself," I tell him. "Think of the pride I'll feel when I see him walk across the stage at UCLA to accept his diploma in engineering. Or law. Or medicine."

"Man, Pete, you're something else," he says, shaking his head. "What if he doesn't want to go to UCLA?"

"Wherever he decides to go, it's fine, as long as he goes to college. I didn't have that opportunity when I was younger, so I don't want Jimmy missing out on what I missed out on," I say. "And furthermore, I intend to get him a savings bond each year for Christmas, and also on his birthday."

"You don't have to do that, Pete, you know that," he says. "That's not what being a godfather is."

"So?" I ask. "It's my decision, so deal with it. After all, you don't wanna screw with the godfather, you know."

"True that," he says, chuckling. "After the great Mr. Potato Head spudnapping and subsequent dismembering."

"Yeah, about that…" I say. "Sorry the post office lost the little feet in the mail."

He shrugs. "Eh…Jimmy was too young to really play with it anyway," he says. "He mostly chewed on the bigger parts, that's about it." He gives me a sly look. "Sooo…now that I know what you've gotten Jimmy for Christmas, any hints as to what you got ME for Christmas?" he asks.

"I didn't get you anything," I tell him.

"Did too," he jibes. "I distinctly remember you saying that you had Christmas presents for Jimmy, Jean and I, in the trunk of your car."

"Maybe what I got you is also for Jean," I say. "Maybe it's a family gift."

"Well, now where's the fun in THAT?" he asks in dismay. "Hey," he says, suddenly leaning forward in the seat and pointing out the front windshield at what looks like an argument in front of a Christmas tree lot. "Wonder what that's all about?"

"I dunno," I say. "But we're gonna find out." Deftly I wheel the squad car around in a U-turn, bringing it to a halt in front of the half-empty tree lot.

Reed reaches for the radio mike. "This is One-Adam-12, show us code six at Rocky's Christmas Trees, the corner of Melrose and Ardmore," he says.

 _"One-Adam-12, roger,"_  replies the dispatcher.

We get out of the squad car and approach the tree lot, where a young couple is arguing with an older man, evidently the proprietor of the tree lot. "I don't understand," the young woman says, nearly in tears. "It's just a silly, stumpy little tree. No one wants it, other than us. Why won't you at least let us take it for the five bucks we offered you?"

"I tole ya, I can't let any tree go for anything less than ten dollars," the proprietor tells them, his voice gruff and grumpy. "And that's final."

"Is there a problem here, folks?" Reed asks. "We were driving by and noticed what appeared to be a disagreement of some sort going on here."

"No disagreement, Officer," the tree proprietor says. He peers at Reed through bushy white eyebrows, his craggy and wrinkled face showing a lifetime of dourness and bad moods. "These folks wanna buy this tree for five bucks, but I won't take less than ten on it."

"That's all we can spare," says the young man, looking at us. He and the woman are dressed in rather threadbare, but clean clothes. He has a look of earnestness about his face. "My wife and I, we wanted to get a Christmas tree for our two little ones. They're convinced that if we don't have a tree, Santa will miss them on Christmas Eve tonight." He scrubs a workbeaten and callused palm across his face. "But the fact is, we only had five bucks to spare for a tree. Times have been hard recently, and we're doing good to even have much of a Christmas at all. We didn't want to disappoint the kids, they've already been through enough this year…"

"Yeah, go peddle your sad little hard luck story somewhere else," the tree lot man says roughly. "I don't wanna hear it. Either you buy the tree for ten bucks or beat feet off my lot."

"But Officer, he told us if we could find a small tree on the lot, he'd let us have it for five dollars," the woman tells us, tears rolling down her face. "We found a small tree, and now he won't honor his word! And that's not fair! It's not like anyone else is going to buy that little tree. He's just being mean-spirited and greedy."

"I got a right to make a living, too!" the tree lot man snaps.

"Look, Officer, it's not even much of a tree," the young man says, gesturing to the sad little three foot tree. Its branches are spindly and sparse, and the needles are falling off like dandelion fuzz in a stiff breeze. "We just wanted to make our kids happy. What's so wrong with that?"

"It's not such a bad little tree," the woman says, wiping at the tears on her face. "All it needs is a little love."

Reed looks at the proprietor. "Why don't you just let them have it for five bucks? No one's gonna buy it, and it's one less tree you'll have to dispose of."

"Where's your Christmas spirit, Mister?" the woman asks.

"Christmas spirit?" he asks. "You wanna know where my Christmas spirit is, lady? I hafta be the one who goes out and gets these damned trees off of the tree farm, haul 'em into where the lot is set up, put 'em on display, freeze my ass off waiting for idiots to decide what tree they want…"

"Peddle your sad little hard luck story to someone who gives a damn, Mister," I say rather sharply, the words out of my mouth before I can stop them.

Reed looks at me in surprise. "Uh…Pete?" he asks.

I ignore him, turning to the young couple. "You two say you have five dollars?" I ask.

"Yes," the man says, holding out a five-dollar bill.

Reaching into my pocket, I pull out another five bucks, taking his five dollars and mine, handing the money to the tree lot man. "There. There's your ten dollars for the tree," I tell him, my voice still sharp. I look back to the young couple. "Now your kids will have a Christmas tree so that Santa won't miss them tonight," I tell them kindly.

They both stare at me in open-mouthed astonishment. "Oh, Officer, thank you so much!" the woman cries, breaking into tears once more. "You don't know how much this means to us!"

"Yes, sir," the man says, holding his hand out for me to shake. "Thank you, Officer." His voice cracks a bit and I can see tears glistening in his eyes. "Thank you. It goes to show you that miracles do happen." He puts his arm around his wife and hugs her to him.

"Indeed they do," Reed says, eyeballing me with curiosity. "If only you believe."

"What about the sales tax?" the tree proprietor asks. "I get paid sales tax on every tree, you know, even a crummy one like that."

Reed digs in his pocket and hands the man a nickel. "There," he says. "There's your sales tax, Mister. And I'd advise you to take it and be quiet about it."

"Do you have a vehicle to transport the tree in?" I ask the young couple.

The man points to an old beat-up Ford Fairlane. "We do. And my wife and I, we thank you for your kindness, Officer. If you'll tell me how to get in touch with you at the police station, I'll pay you the five dollars back when I get paid in two weeks."

"Forget it," I tell them as I walk towards the squad car. "It was really nothing."

"You folks have a merry Christmas," Reed tells them.

"You too, Officers!" they call to us. As we pull away, they're gently putting the tiny tree into the trunk of their car.

"Well, now," Reed says after he clears us with dispatch, a jovial tone to his voice. "What was that all about?"

"It wasn't about anything," I tell him gruffly. "I just didn't want to see a couple of kids have their Christmas ruined by the greed of one person, that's all."

"So maybe your grinchy mood is lifting?" he asks hopefully.

"Dream on, kid," I tell him. "If anything, it's worse, after that encounter with a sorry excuse for a man." I shake my head. "Where does he get off, charging ten bucks for a crappy little tree like that?"

"You shouldn't have spouted off to him like you did, Pete," Reed says. "He might report you."

"I realize that," I say. "And let him report me. It's not a big deal, Jim."

He chuckles. "Hell, I thought YOU were being a big enough grinch today, but that guy takes the fruitcake." He nudges me. "Get it? The fruitcake?"

"Yeah, I got it," I tell him. "And it ain't that funny, Reed."

"Well,  _excuuuse_  ME!" he says snarkily. "I don't have that pithy sense of humor that you have, Pete. I'm not jaded and bitter enough yet to have developed it."

"I'm not jaded and bitter," I sigh. "I'm just sick of Christmas, that's all."

"Something's really bug…" he begins.

"Stop!" I say, holding my hand up. "Nothing is bugging me, I just am not in a mood full of Christmas cheer."

"Maybe I can…" he begins again.

"And no," I interrupt. "There is nothing you can do to help me, I don't need any help. I just need to get through the rest of this watch without any problems, so I can go home and sleep through the next twenty-four hours of holiday festivities."

He puts on a mock-wounded pout. "You're a mean one, Mr. Grinch," he sings, imitating Boris Karloff. "You really are a heel. You're as cuddly as a cactus, you're as charming as an eel…"

"Please stop," I moan, interrupting him. "I don't need your rendition of the Grinch song."

 _"One-Adam-12, One-Adam-12, copy a disturbance, 1225 Holly Drive. Handle code two,"_ the dispatcher says, mercifully putting a temporary end to Reed's song.

"One-Adam-12, roger," he says into the mike. He's quiet for a moment. Then he turns to me. "Hey, you know what song I've got going through my head right now?" he asks brightly.

I sigh heavily. "It's hard to tell, but I'm sure you're going to let me know in a second, aren't you?" I ask, aiming the car in the direction of Holly Drive.

"Hark Dumb Harold, angels si-ying, glory to, the new bald king!" he sings loudly.

"This is gonna be a loooong night," I mutter under my breath.

* * *

The house where the alleged disturbance is taking place is a modest, two-story home, painted yellow and green, with a small, but well-manicured lawn in front. Evergreen bushes decked out in white lights nestle up against the white-painted porch, and twinkling colored lights are wrapped around the pillars of the porch. Blue electric candles are in the side windows, while a huge Christmas tree stands in the picture window. The house reminds me a little of my childhood home in Seattle. At least on the outside, anyway.

"Cute little house," Reed says as we get out of the squad car. "Nice neighborhood. We don't get too many calls out here, do we?"

"No, we don't," I say, walking up the front sidewalk as Reed follows. "It's pretty quiet." I climb the steps to the porch.

"Oh, they've got a porch swing," Jim observes. "I always wanted to get one for Jean, but we don't have much of a front porch to put one on."

"Get a glider and set it on your patio," I tell him, knocking on the door to the house. A wreath with a red bow hangs on the door.

"Yeah, I should," he says. "We can set out there in nice weather and rock Jimmy. And Jean and I can snuggle up on it, glasses of wine in hand, and watch the stars overhead. Very romantic."

No one answers my knock, so I knock again. This time the door swings open, and a worried-looking woman in a floral dress answers. Her dark hair is held back by a matching headband. "Oh, thank goodness you're here, Officers!" she exclaims. "Please, come right in!" She holds the door open for Reed and I to enter.

I take off my cap and Reed does the same. "I'm Officer Malloy and this is my partner, Officer Reed," I tell her. "What seems to be the trouble here, miss?"

"Aww, Melinda, you had to go and call the cops, didn't you?" asks a blonde man with wire-rimmed glasses and a checkered sport shirt on. He's sitting in an easy chair by the huge Christmas tree, piles of gaily wrapped presents tucked under the branches of the tree. "Why'd you do that?"

"Now Ralph Parker, if you won't listen to me, maybe you'll listen to them!" she says, gesturing firmly to us.

"We got a call that there was a disturbance at this residence," Reed says.

"There's not really a disturbance," the man called Ralph replies. "My wife just isn't very happy with what I bought our son, Ralphie Jr., for Christmas."

"You're darned right I'm not happy, Ralph!" she says emphatically. "Honestly, who in their right mind would even CONSIDER giving a nine-year-old boy a BB gun for a present?"

"It's not just  _a_  BB gun, Melinda!" Ralph protests vehemently. A look of extreme rapture crosses his face as he dreamily begins to describe the gun for us. "It's an official Red Ryder carbine-action 200 shot range model air rifle, with a compass in the stock and this thing that tells time," he murmurs reverently, as if he's reciting Scripture.

"I thought they quit making those," I say.

"They did," Mr. Parker tells me. "But my parents sent me a box of stuff from back home in Indiana. They're getting ready to move into a smaller home, and they're cleaning things out. I opened the box and found my old Red Ryder gun inside." He stands up, going over to a cardboard box that is sitting on a coffee table. He pulls out the BB gun, caressing it gently with his fingers. "I took it and cleaned it, made sure it still works, and I'm giving it to my son for Christmas this year." He looks at his wife. "And that's final."

"He'll shoot his eye out," she warns. "That's what will happen, you wait and see." She looks at us. "I'm sure you officers have plenty of horror stories about little boys who've shot their eyes out with BB guns," she says. "So I want you two to go ahead and tell him, maybe he'll come to his senses and get rid of that gun!"

"Uh…well…no, not really," Reed says. "We actually get more vandalism calls from BB guns than anything."

"May I see it for a moment?" I ask, holding my hand out.

"Sure," he says, giving it to me. "I begged and begged for this gun one Christmas. I wrote to Santa, I asked the department store Santa for one, hell, I even wrote an essay in school on wanting the gun for Christmas. And on Christmas morning, when my brother and I came downstairs to open our gifts, there was no gun under the tree, which really disappointed me. Then my parents pointed out a gift that I'd missed, and when I opened it, it was the Red Ryder BB gun." He shakes his head, smiling with the memory. "It was the best Christmas ever, I swear."

I run my fingers over the smooth wooden grip of the air rifle, the gun lightweight in my hands compared to our service revolvers and our shotguns. The covering over the compass in the stock shines, and the sundial needle isn't even chipped like it should be from years of use. The long metal barrel gleams in the light of the Christmas tree and turning away so that I'm not aiming at anyone inside the house, I raise the gun to my shoulder, trancelike, my eyes picking out a line of fire in its sights.  _This was the Holy Grail of my childhood…this was what I really wanted but never got,_  I think to myself. I slip an index finger over the trigger and imagine pulling it,  _just once_ , to see what it was like to fire a Red Ryder BB gun. Then, with a heavy sigh, I return the gun to Ralph Parker. "It's really a nice little BB gun, Mr. Parker," I tell him, eyeing it regretfully. "I'm sure your son will love it. I know I would've as a kid."

'Yeah," he says, smiling at it reverentially. "I used to spend hours with it, pretending I was in the Old West saving the outpost from attacking Indians, or I was a police officer rounding up nasty crooks…"

"But Ralphie will shoot his eye out," his wife protests once more.

"Trust me, I never shot MY eye out," Ralph says emphatically. "Or anyone else's eye, for that matter."

"But you told me that one time that you got hurt playing with it, that one of the BB's bounced back and hit you in the face," she says.

"True, it did," he says. "But that's what I got for shooting at a metal sign so closely." He fixes her with a frown, pushing his glasses back up his nose. "Besides, that didn't give you any right to break my lamp, Melinda."

"Oh, THAT hideous thing!" she groans, throwing her hands up in the air with disgust. "It deserved to be broken, Ralph, and you know it."

"It's a family heirloom!" he says. "It was my dad's favorite!"

"It WOULD be," she says with a roll of her eyes. She turns around and points to what's left of a lamp on the floor behind her. "Just LOOK at that awful thing," she says to us. "It should be arrested for being so ugly!"

The broken lamp is in the shape of a life-sized lady's leg, up to the thigh, encased in black fishnet stockings. A high heel serves as the base, while a yellow lampshade with fringe on it tops the lamp off. Even broken into large pieces, the lamp still exudes an aura of overt sex.

"Whoa!" Reed exclaims, his eyes going wide at the sight. "What a lamp!"

"You men are all alike," Mrs. Parker says, clucking her tongue with disgust.

"That's a pretty interesting lamp you've got there, Mr. Parker," I say. "Where'd you get it?"

"Thanks," he says. "It was my dad's. He won it in a contest one year. He put the lamp up in our front window for everyone to see, he was that proud of it. But my mom hated it, so she 'accidentally' broke it. It couldn't be glued back together, so my old man buried it in the backyard. He mourned the dumb thing like it was a family pet or something. My mom felt so bad about it, she somehow managed to track down a similar lamp and got it for him. It always sat in our living room after that. Now that my parents are moving to a smaller home, they sent it to me. And Melinda broke it, just like my mom did the original lamp."

"And believe me, I'm not sorry I did, either," she sniffs.

"So, what can we do to resolve this issue for tonight?" Reed asks.

"Tell my wife that BB guns aren't dangerous," Mr. Parker says. "Ralphie won't shoot his eye out, I promise."

Reed shrugs. "It's true, Mrs. Parker. I had a BB gun as a kid and I never got hurt playing with it."

She looks at me. "What about you, Officer?" she asks.

"I never got one for Christmas, even though I wanted one," I say. "So I wouldn't know."

"Look, honey, I'll teach him how to use it safely," Mr. Parker pleads. "I swear. And if he DOES get hurt, or he damages something with it, I'll take it away from him. And you know Ralphie's been begging for a BB gun for awhile now. So let me give him the one that I enjoyed as a kid. I really used to have a lot of fun, shooting at tin cans and old tires, stuff like that."

"What if he shoots at birds? Or worse yet, another kid?" she asks.

"He won't," Ralph assures her. "I'll warn him that if he does that, he gets the gun taken away and he won't ever get it back."

She sighs, shaking her head as she finally relents. "Fine, Ralph. As long as you make sure he doesn't shoot his eye out." She bends down, picking up the pieces of the leg lamp. "And I'm sorry I broke your lamp. I guess if you can glue this monstrosity back together, you can keep it, as long as it stays in the den."

"So, this is settled here tonight?" I ask.

Mr. Parker nods. "Yeah, sorry you fellas got called out here." He shakes our hands.

"Not a problem, Mr. Parker," Reed tells him. "It's what we're here for."

"Thanks for coming out," Mrs. Parker says as they escort us to the door. "You two have a merry Christmas," she tells us as Reed opens the door.

"Same to you folks," Reed tells them as we leave. "Hey," he says, hurrying to catch up with me as I walk down the front sidewalk to the car. "At least it wasn't the battling Beuhlers this time."

"Give it time, Reed," I tell him. "The night is still young."

"And the wassail bowl is still full," he says, grinning. "Have you ever tried wassail, Pete?" he asks as we climb into the car.

"Ugh," I gag. "Yes. It's just like eggnog."

"Hey, I don't mind eggnog," he says, picking up the mike and clearing us with dispatch as I pull away from the curb. He leans forward and peers out the windshield. "You know, I seriously would not be surprised if it snowed tonight, Pete. It's that cold out."

"It hasn't snowed in LA since 1962," I tell him. "So I doubt it's gonna snow now, Reed. And if it did, it would be a nightmare."

"Why?" he asks.

"Most people in Los Angeles have absolutely no clue how to drive in snow," I tell him. "So imagine all the wrecks that will happen when you mix the natives, the freeway system, and even a slight dusting of white fluffy crap. Add in a few inebriated drivers and it's a disaster, waiting to happen."

"I think it would be a miracle," he says.

"And you would, too," I reply irritably. "I, on the other hand, have had my fill of winter when I lived in Seattle. It's one of the reasons I moved to L.A. after I got out of the service."

He looks at his watch. "Hey, could we stop by Higbee's Toy Store over on Santa Monica Boulevard?" he asks.

"Why?"

"I thought of a last-minute gift I wanna get Jimmy for Christmas," he says.

"Can't it wait 'til we take our seven?" I ask.

"Higbee's closes at five, and we may not get our seven in by that time," he says. "Besides, it's for your godson. Surely you can't deny me buying a gift for your godson, can you?"

"I guess not," I grumble, turning the car in the direction of Santa Monica Boulevard. "But you'd better hope we don't get any calls while you're in the store, Reed."

"I'll make it fast, I promise," he says. "And now, ladies and gentlemen," he intones, lowering his voice into the deepest baritone he can muster. "More of 'Jim Reed Sings Christmas Carols For Your Listening Pleasure." He throws his head back, closing his eyes. "Chet's nuts roasting over an open fire…" he croons.

"It's more like 'Jim Reed Mangles Christmas Carols For Your Listening Torture,'" I remark dryly. "Let's face it, Nat King Cole you ain't, partner."

"Hey, you know what I found out the other day?" he asks.

"Your lost marbles?" I ask.

"What?" he asks, frowning. "No, I didn't lose my…oh, wait, I get it. My lost marbles. Ooh, the snarky witticisms are returning, slowly but surely! It's a Christmas miracle, boys and girls! Pete Malloy is getting his Christmas spirit back! Hallelujah!" he crows.

"I'm far from getting my Christmas spirit back," I tell him. "Especially since I never had it to begin with. Now what was this amazing discovery that you found the other day?"

"Jack Webb did a recording of 'Try A Little Tenderness'," he says.

"Yeah, so?" I ask.

He snorts. "C'mon, Pete, Jack Webb? Mr. Just-The-Facts-Ma'am himself? Recording a love song? Get real!"

"William Shatner did a version of 'Lucy In The Sky With Diamonds,'" I tell him, shrugging.

"Oh, holy crap, he didn't!" Reed giggles. He throws his head back against the seat, laughing. "Oh my God, I bet that's a hoot to hear! Lucy!...In the sky!...With Diah-monds! Mr. Spock! Set phasers…on…stun! For when the girl…with colitis…goes by!"

I can't help but smiling a bit at his impression, it's pretty dead-on. "Actually, I think the line is about a girl with kalidescope eyes, not colitis."

"Well, whaddaya expect?" he asks. "It's the Beatles. And let's face it, they're a bit on the uh…eccentric side sometimes. What with all that living in a yellow submarine, and being the walrus."

"Let's not forget the magical mystery tour," I say.

"Oh yeah, THAT'D be a bus trip from hell," he says. "You gotta wonder what in the hell they were smoking or dropping when they wrote some of that stuff. I mean, a lot of it is really outlandish."

"Outlandish, yes," I say. "But in forty years, they'll be revered as rock gods, their songs will be considered classics. You wait and see." I pull up outside of Higbee's Toy Store. "And we're here at Higbee's. Now run in and get whatever last-minute gift you decided Jimmy needed and get back out here, in case we get a call."

"Got it," he says, hopping out and flashing me a grin. "I'll be back in a minute." He enters the brightly-lit toy store, and while he's gone, I look at the toys on display in the big plate glass windows. There's the standard fare: a red Radio Flyer wagon, baseball gloves and bats, shiny new bikes, plus an assortment of dolls and dollhouses. There's Lincoln Logs and Tinkertoys, wooden blocks, a slot-car race track, a miniature kitchen set, doll strollers, Etch-A-Sketches, and the Holy Grail: an air rifle. Even as old as I am now, the longing for a BB gun still washes over me, and I think of the Red Ryder rifle that Mr. Parker was going to give his son for Christmas. I never got one, since after my dad came home from the war, he refused to let me have one. And I knew better than to beg or wheedle for one too much, lest I get a slap across the face and a screaming lecture from him. A sharp pang of bitterness rises in my throat, and I swallow it back, leaving a taste like ashes in my mouth. I fumble in my coat pocket for a roll of peppermints, fishing the roll out and popping one into my mouth. Wearily, I rub my forehead, shaking myself out of my momentary reverie. It won't do for me to dwell on the past right now, I'm already in a black enough mood as it is.

Reed comes out of the toy store with a long thin package wrapped in bright red paper, and tied with a green bow. He goes around to the trunk of the car, pops the lid, and tucks the present away, closing the trunk lid with a thunk. He comes around to the passenger side of the car and climbs in. "Got it," he says, smiling happily.

I look over at him. "So, you gonna tell me what this last-minute gift is for my godson?" I ask. "Or do I hafta guess?"

"I'm not gonna tell you, Pete," he teases. "If you're so damned curious as to what it is, you'll hafta come over tomorrow afternoon and see him open it."

"No thanks," I say, pulling away from the brightly-lit display window of Higbee's. "I'll pass. Besides, Jimmy can't open his presents yet, so it'll either be you or Jean that'll open them for him."

"Really, Pete, what is going on with you?" he asks, looking at me with a slight frown. "Usually you're pretty enthusiastic about spending time with your godson."

"It's nothing," I lie again. "I'm just not feeling like spending Christmas with anyone. So quit bugging me, Reed." And before he can pester me any further, we're dispatched to another call.

" _One-Adam-12, One-Adam-12, and any unit to back One-Adam-12, assist a Department of Children's Welfare worker in the removal of children from a home. 1225 Dove Drive. DCW worker Liz Grant requests that you meet her in the parking lot of the Save-A-Lot, 1015 Dove Drive prior to going to the residence in order to fill you in. She'll be standing by in a grey Ford sedan,"_ the dispatcher tells us.

"One-Adam-12, roger," Reed acknowledges.

 _"One-Adam-45 will be en route to back One-Adam-12 on that child removal call,"_ comes the voice of Bob Brinkman over the radio.

 _"Copy, One-Adam-45,"_  the dispatcher replies.

"Great, Ed Wells and Bob Brinkman are backing us up," I grumble. "Just the guys I wanna see on a day like today."

Reed shakes his head. "Man, a child removal case on Christmas Eve, this ain't gonna be easy."

"Yeah, because Brink and Wells are backing us up," I say dourly.

"No, because I'd hate to be taken away from MY parents and my home on Christmas Eve," he says.

"It's probably the best thing for them," I say. "Maybe the living conditions are so bad, the kids will be glad to go."

"Yeah, but I can't imagine McLaren Hall will be a fun place to spend Christmas," he says.

"Yeah, I guess," I tell him, shrugging. "It's a place for them to go. It's got good food, warm clothes, and a roof over their heads. That counts for something."

"But it doesn't count for love, Pete," Reed says. "The love they get from home."

"Maybe they're not getting love from home," I say a bit testily. "Maybe there's nothing like that where they live at now. Not every parent loves their kid enough to give a damn about them, Jim, or what happens to them."

He looks at me for a moment. "Yeah, you're probably right," he says.

"I KNOW I'm right," I say. "We just experienced that awhile ago with the baby."

"Still, I'm not letting this dampen my holiday spirit," he says cheerfully.

"Maybe not," I tell him. "But I'm about ready to dump a bucket of water over your head and see if it drowns it."

"My Christmas spirit or my head?" he asks wryly.

"Both," I tell him, inwardly wincing as he begins to bellow the 'The Little Drummer Boy.' I grip the steering wheel so tightly my knuckles turn white. "This is DEFINITELY going to be a VERY long night," I say, shaking my head.


	3. I'll Be Home For Christmas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **ALL ORIGINAL CONTENT OF THIS STORY IS THE SOLE PROPERTY OF BAMBOOZLEPIG AND MAY NOT BE USED WITHOUT PERMISSION.** In order to enhance the overall plot experience, creative liberties may have been intentionally taken with the real-life protocols depicted herein.

_I'LL BE HOME FOR CHRISTMAS…_

… _Peter, do you remember the Christmas your father came home from the war? You were so glad to have your daddy back, and so was I! He'd been away for such a long time, and he'd missed so much of your growing up. You were only six when he went away to war, and you were already eight years old when he came back. You tried to show him all the things you could do, now that you were older and bigger, and son, he really did try to pay attention to you, those first few weeks he returned home. But it was hard for him, to settle back into the family life we'd enjoyed before the war, after what hells and horrors he'd experienced over there. I know he still loved us, he was just afraid to show it. And I know he was proud of you, Peter, that you'd been the man of the house while he was gone, because he used to tell his buddies that all the time. He just…he just couldn't deal with what he'd witnessed, so that's why he turned to drink. It made the nightmares go away, at least for a little while. Maybe someday you'll understand that, Peter._

… _Yeah, Mom, I remember the Christmas Dad came home from the war. I was really excited and happy about it, I told my friends for weeks that my dad was coming home the week of Christmas. And then when he did come home, he didn't seem glad to see us, he seemed distant, standoffish. I tried to show him all the things I'd learned to do while he was gone, all the things I was proud of, but he kept telling me he'd spend time with me later on, it was always later on. And one day, when I showed disappointment that he'd brushed me off again, he got mad at me, yelled at me, called me ungrateful and uncaring. Dad had never yelled at me before like that, and it scared me. And then he disappeared that first Christmas Eve he was home, leaving you frantic with worry and me fearful that he was dead somewhere. We had to go to Mass that night, and you had to lie to the priest and other parish members and tell them that Dad was feeling under the weather and was staying at home that night, when in reality, he was boozing it up at the local tavern. And when the tavern closed at 2 A.M., he and his drinking buddies took the party home to someone's house. And I remember him strolling into our house Christmas morning, completely unapologetic, still reeking of booze and stale cigarette smoke. And he passed out in the chair, only to awaken a few hours later, mad that he'd missed out on watching us open our presents and Christmas dinner. He yelled and screamed and stomped around, then he left the house again, going over to a drinking buddy's house. He stayed out again that night, too, but we knew better by then to worry about him. And that began the ritual he'd observe nearly every night for the rest of my childhood: go out drinking and not come home until the wee hours of the morning, so wasted that he'd pass out in the chair downstairs. So yeah, I remember that Christmas pretty well, Mom, it was the one that basically ended my childhood innocence…_

* * *

"Pete, Jim, we've got to stop meeting like this," Liz Grant tells us cheerfully as she climbs out of her Ford sedan in the parking lot of the Save-A-Lot grocery store. I'm pulled in next to her, while the squad car of Ed Wells and Bob Brinkman are on the other side of her car. They get out and come over to us.

"Yeah," Reed chuckles. "By the way, how's that baby that you took in from the church doing?"

"Oh, he's fine," she says. "I took him over to Rampart Hospital to get checked out, and because he was exposed to the elements for at least a couple of hours, they're going to keep him overnight just as a precaution. I've got the gal down in their records department working to see if she can pull up any information that might help us identify him, just in case his mother gave birth to him there. But unfortunately, a found baby isn't the case that we're going to be going on right now."

"Lemme guess, we're going to Tammy's again," Ed says. "She musta fallen off the wagon, huh?"

"Yes," Liz nods. She looks at Jim and I. "You two haven't been called out here to Tammy Atkins' residence before, have you?" she asks.

"No, the name doesn't ring a bell," I say. "Neither does the address."

"Tammy's one of our 'system mothers', I guess you'd say," she tells us. "She's an alcoholic and a drug addict with three children under the age of ten. We've done emergency removals of her children at least three times in the past from this address, all because she's relapsed and is neglecting them again. She's received treatment twice at Single Step Rehabilitation Center, but she can't seem to keep clean. The longest she's gone being free from drugs and alcohol was when she was pregnant with her youngest son, Joey. She seemed to be able and rather willing to maintain sobriety in order to keep her children since his birth six months ago, but a neighbor called and reported that she's apparently abusing drugs and alcohol again, and she's neglecting the children once more." She shakes her head. "This is the last time, too. She's run out of chances to keep her family together. The judge issued a court order this morning making her children permanent wards of the state."

"You have the court order and the emergency removal order with you?" Brinkman asks. "Because if you remember, the last time we had to do this, she tried to claim the court order wasn't valid because it wasn't served on the date it was issued."

"Yes," Liz tells him. "I've got all the paperwork in order, Bob. She can't dispute any of it." She turns to Reed and I. "I'll warn you two ahead of time, her home is likely going to be rather disastrous on the inside, she's not big on housekeeping. Her drugs of choice besides alcohol in any form, is heroin and marijuana, so watch out for needles in her place. And she's really a handful, she doesn't like cops or social workers, so be prepared to be met with a bitchy attitude."

"The last time we did the removal, she slapped me," Ed says. "So she's not above assault on a police officer."

"Where's the father of the kids in all of this?" Reed asks. "Why isn't he involved?"

"Who knows?" Liz says. "We don't even know who the fathers of the kids are, and we suspect she doesn't know either, since she has given us multiple names over the years. Not knowing who the fathers are, she can't get child support, so the kids are basically her only meal ticket. With them at home, she gets food stamps and WIC assistance for the baby, along with monthly welfare checks from both the state and the county. If the kids are taken away, she loses those benefits, along with her rental assistance."

"How many kids are there?" I ask. "Three, you said?"

"Yes, three," she says. "There's Boyd, he's eight, and Raylene, she's five. Then there's the baby, Joey, and he's about six months." She clears her throat. "In addition to neglecting them, we also suspect that she's abusing them physically, or allowing someone else in the home to do it. A teacher at Boyd's school noticed what looks like bruises on his arms and reported it to us."

"Where are you taking them?" Reed asks. "McLaren Hall?"

"Yes, they've got beds already lined up for them. I hate to say this, but the kids are getting to be old pros at being taken away from their mother. They're used to it by now, they've done it so often in the past."

"She have any weapons in the home that we need to know about?" I ask.

"No, like I said, just watch out for needles," Liz tells us. "Now she doesn't know we're coming, but I don't think she's a flight risk. But just to be on the safe side, there's a small alleyway that runs in back of the house, so if one of you will take that, the other unit can follow me."

"We'll take the alley," Brinkman says. "You and Reed can cover the front. We'll let you know when we're in place."

"Got it," I say, as Liz climbs back into her own car. "Let's roll." I wait until she backs out, then I pull out, with Adam-45 following me. I fall in behind Liz's car as we go down Dove Drive, and when we reach the corner of Dove and Birch Avenue, Adam-45 turns down Birch in order to take the alleyway behind the house.

1225 Dove Drive was probably, at one time, a nice little house, likely built in the early 1920's. But years of neglect and abuse have taken a toll on it; white paint is peeling away from the wood siding, exposing greyish dry rot underneath, while the roof sags visibly in the middle. One of the side windows has evidently been busted out, since it's covered over with a piece of plywood. The lawn is unkempt, overgrown bushes with bits of trash stuck in them are strangling the haphazardly leaning porch, while dead weeds outnumber the sparse brown grass. A child's trike is tipped over in the driveway, while a rusted-out Chevy Bel-Aire sits up on blocks at the side of the house. A wrought-iron railing leans drunkenly over broken cement steps and a loose shutter at one of the windows bangs in the wind.

 _"One-Adam-45 to One-Adam-12, we're in place in the rear of the house,"_  Bob Brinkman's voice tells us over the radio.

"One-Adam-12, roger. We're getting ready to make entry," Reed replies. The two of us get out of the squad car and follow Liz Grant up to the dumpy little house.

"Watch the steps," she says, pointing out a couple of wooden steps on the porch that are nearly rotted through to the ground underneath. A scrawny black cat with vicious yellow eyes glares at us from the edge of the porch, then it hisses at us, arching its back. It jumps down from the edge of the porch and crawls underneath, where I can hear it growling at us in an eerie low tone. Liz raps on the weatherbeaten wooden front door, the screen door to the home taken off of its hinges and leaned up against the side of the house. No one answers, so she raps again. "Miss Atkins, it's Liz Grant from Children's Welfare," she calls. "You need to open the door."

The door creaks open a bit, stopped by a chain lock, and a haggard-looking redhead of about 30, with mean green eyes and unkempt hair peers out at us, cigarette dangling from her lips. "Whaddaya want?" she growls in a raspy smoker's voice. "I'm busy." She's dressed in a ratty t-shirt and dirty sweatpants, and her makeup looks like it's been applied by a drunken clown.

"It's Liz Grant, from Children's Welfare, Miss Atkins. You remember me, don't you?" Liz asks. "I've worked with you before."

"Yeah, so whaddaya want?" she rasps again, the growl in her voice matching that of the cat hiding underneath the porch.

"Can we come inside?" Liz asks her.

"What for?" Miss Atkins asks suspiciously, her heavily-made up eyes narrowing. "I ain't done nuthin' wrong."

"We need to speak to you about your children, Tammy," Liz tells her. "We've received several reports from people who are concerned about their welfare. They're afraid that you're not taking care of them like you should be. And there's also a concern that you may be using again, along with drinking alcohol once more."

"Fools around here are too goddamned nosy for their own goddamned good," Miss Atkins complains. "I ain't mistreatin' my kids. And I ain't drinkin' again or usin' drugs, neither. Now go away." She starts to shut the door.

Liz stops her, putting her hand firmly on the door, her weight behind it. "Tammy, I have a court order in hand for the emergency removal of your children from your home," she says, her voice going from sweetie-pie nice to razor-tipped steel in seconds. "These two officers are here to assist me. Now if you don't let us in, I'll request that they force the door open. You don't want that, Tammy, you don't want to make a scene in front of your kids."

Tammy's eyes narrow to slits as the gauntlet is thrown down. "So break the goddamned door down, see if I care," she challenges, slamming the door in our faces.

I give Reed a nod and he draws his foot back, kicking the door in. Immediately, we hear a baby start wailing from inside. We step across the threshold, followed by Liz and find out that Liz was right: the house is a complete disaster area. Beer cans and whiskey bottles litter the living room, along with old takeout cartons of rotting food. Dishes and eating utensils are scattered about, encrusted with remnants of dried food, while drinking glasses filthy with slime sit on the coffee table and end tables. An overflowing ashtray is also on the coffee table, along with a half-full vodka bottle. Apparently Tammy isn't particular about her poison. Old newspapers and magazines are piled high on the ratty plaid couch and on the thin carpet, and a hype kit is plainly out in the open next to the overflowing ashtray. While the electricity is still on to the house, it's evident that the heat has been turned off, since we can see our breath. The stench of rotting food, dirty diapers, and stale booze and cigarette smoke permeat the home in a nauseatingly thick cloud. Even in the light, I see two large cockroaches crawling lazily up a far wall, while fat flies buzz lazily about, lighting on the remnants of food with obvious delight. I spot a mouse scurrying across the floor into the kitchen, while the baby continues to wail from somewhere within. I catch Reed's eye and repress a shudder, while he makes a face of abject disgust. I fight the urge to flee this trash dump. "I'll go let Wells and Brinkman in the back door," I tell Jim.

The kitchen is in no better shape than the living room is. When I flick on the light, so many roaches skitter away from their feast on rancid food remnants, that I swear I can hear the sound of their bodies scurrying across the sticky tile floor. Two thin lines of ants march across a scarred wooden table that is practically buried underneath old food cartons and trash. Dishes are piled high in the sink, and on the stovetop, a frying pan sits with rancid grease and rotten hamburger in it. A copper-bottomed pot with what I think to be rice in it sits on a filthy countertop; when I glance at it again, I realize that the rice is moving and is actually maggots squirming around in the pot. More fat flies buzz lazily about, and the same mouse, or maybe its kin, darts across the kitchen floor and dives under the refrigerator. My skin crawls and I bite back a gag as I cross the floor to let Brinkman and Wells in, the soles of my shoes sticking hard to the tile. I unlock and open the back door, where Ed and Brink wait patiently on the steps. "This place is absolutely vile," I tell Brinkman as they enter. "I've seen bad cases of poor housekeeping before, but this one takes the cake."

"It's actually been worse other times we've been out here," Brinkman says, relocking the back door behind him. I give him a questioning look and he shrugs. "Last time we had to take her down, she claimed we didn't lock up before we left, and someone broke into her house and stole the tv set."

"Did they?" I ask.

"No, it was one of her user-loser boyfriends who took the tv and pawned it," Brink says. "He had a key to get in."

"You got no goddamned right to interfere with my kids and I," Tammy is defiantly telling Liz and Reed back in the living room. She grabs a pack of cigarettes from an end table and taps one out, lighting it off of the butt of the one she's already got in her mouth. She blows the smoke right at Jim and Liz. "I'm takin' care of my kids. I ain't neglectin' 'em."

"What do you call all this, Tammy?" Liz asks, gesturing around to the gigantic mess of booze bottles and old food cartons. "Paradise?"

"So I got a little behind in my housework, so what?" Tammy asks snottily. "Betcha even June Cleaver got behind in her housework once in awhile." She scratches at her stomach through her raggedy t-shirt, peering at us with bloodshot eyes. Even from here, I can see that her pupils are pinpricks within the green irises, indicating she's shot up recently. She picks at the scabbed-over track marks on her arms. "Lousy goddamned cops and social workers, interfering with a mother and her children. Just ain't right."

"Look at this place, Tammy," Liz scolds. "It's filthy and disgusting. I wouldn't even bring a pet flea into this mess. There's trash everywhere, and it feels like the heat's been turned off in here, so I'm guessing you didn't pay the gas bill this month, did you?"

"I had other expenses!" Tammy snaps. "Besides, me and the kids, we like it cold."

"Would your other expenses include paying for the junk that goes into that hype kit you've got lying on the table there?" I ask.

"That's not a hype kit, you pig!" she tells me indignantly. "I'm a diabetic, and that's my insolent needle!" Any other time, her comment would have been funny, but in this dump of a house, it's just plain disgusting.

"When was the last time you shot up, Tammy?" I ask.

"I don't know what you're talkin' about, pig," she tells me.

"C'mon, Tammy, we're not rookies fresh from the academy," I tell her. "I can see that your pupils are pinpricks, indicating you're high. When's the last time you shot up? An hour ago? Longer than that?'

"Why the hell do you wanna know anyway, pig?" she asks.

"Because if you end up going to Sybil Brand this afternoon, they'll need to know whether to place you in the medical ward or in a regular cell," I tell her. "You don't wanna be jonesing in a regular cell, trust me."

"Where's the kids at, Tammy?" Liz asks.

"You ain't gettin' near my kids unless I see the court order," Tammy snarls, putting her hands on her hips and going into a defensive stance.

"Fine," Liz says, pulling a sheaf of papers out of her purse, handing them to Tammy. "There they are. They allow us to remove the children from this residence immediately and place them into protective custody. And be advised, Tammy, that the judge severed your parental rights to these kids this morning. That means you won't get them back ever again." She looks around the house. "Now, where are the kids at, Tammy?"

"The judge can't do that to me!" Tammy cries. "I never agreed to give my kids up!"

"You didn't have to agree," Liz tells her firmly. "All you had to do was go back to your old habits. That was enough. Now tell us where the kids are at, Tammy."

Compressing her lips into a thin line, Tammy folds her arms across her chest defiantly and glares at Liz. "See if you can find them, you stupid bitch," she growls at her. "You and your Gestapo pig buddies here."

"Boyd? Raylene?" Liz calls out to the children. "Where are you at?" She pushes past Tammy and starts down the hallway to the bedrooms, followed by Reed and I. "Boyd? Raylene? It's Miss Liz! Where are you at?"

Suddenly there is a pounding coming from a small closet in the hallway. "Miss Liz, we're in here!" I hear a little boy's voice cry in panic. "Mommy locked us in the closet! There's no light in here and we're scared! Let us out!"

"Mommy, I don' like the dark!" shrieks a little girl. "I wan' out! Mommy, please let us out! We promise to be good!"

Liz stops in front of the heavy wooden closet door and whips around, facing Tammy. "You locked this door with a padlock!" she says in shock, pointing to a silver hasp locked with a menacing padlock. "Where's the key, Tammy?"

I tug on the hasp of the lock, hoping maybe it's loose, but it's on there pretty solid. The children scream and pound frantically from the other side of the door, begging to be let out, and the baby starts wailing again. I look at Reed in sheer horror, my heart pounding somewhere in the vicinity of my throat. "She's locked all three of them in there," I tell him hoarsely. "Even the baby."

"Tammy, where's the key?" Reed asks, looking at her from the hallway.

"I ain't tellin' you bastards," she snaps. "You go get a goddamned search warrant if you hafta, but I ain't tellin'."

"We can't break it down," I say, gesturing to the door. "It's too heavy. And I sure as hell ain't waiting for the fire department to get here to cut the lock." As I hear the frightened children wail and plead from the other side, an immense wave of sheer anger and hatred suddenly washes over me, and I turn away from the door, the vile loathing I feel for Tammy nearly choking me with its harshness.  _How dare this woman lock three innocent children away in a darkened closet? Isn't what they've suffered already at her hands bad enough?_ And with those thoughts swirling around in my buzzing brain, I cross the hallway in about five long strides to where Tammy stands sneeringly in the living room. I grab her roughly by the shoulders and give her a hard shake. "Where's the key at, you stupid…" I snarl, but I'm stopped from rattling her any further, much to my dismay, by Jim Reed, who quickly pulls me away from her.

"Pete, cool it!" Reed warns me sharply, shaking me by the upper arm where he's got a cast-iron grip on my bicep.

"Get your filthy hands offa me, you goddamned pig!" she shrieks at me. "Who the hell do you think you are, asshole?"

"A damn sight better person than you are!" I snap back. "Now where's the key at to unlock that damned door?"

Mean green eyes narrowed to mere slits, she draws her head back. She hawks and spits on me, her spittle landing on my badge. "Go screw yourself, pig," she snarls.

"Cuff her!" I bark at Ed and Brink, as I wipe her spit off with my handkerchief.

"Whaddaya arrestin' me for?" she yells, as Brinkman and Ed start to make a grab for her. She flails out with a fist, catching Brink on the shoulder. Catching her wrist in his hand, Brinkman shoves her backward, momentarily knocking her off-balance, while Ed steps in and grabs the other wrist. "Let go of me, you bastards!" she shrieks at them, trying to dance out of their grip, but they deftly spin her around, twisting her wrists behind her back. Ed snaps the cuffs on her with a satisfying snick. "Ouch! They're too goddamned tight, asshole!" she yells at Ed. "Loosen 'em!"

"Sit down and be quiet," Ed commands, as he and Brinkman pull her over to the couch, forcing her to sit down.

"Screw you, asshole!" she snarls at him. "I wanna know what the hell I'm bein' arrested for, you jackasses!"

"For starters, interference with official acts," I snarl back at her. "We'll discuss the other charges later on, after you tell us where that damned key is at!"

"It's on the goddamned coffee table," she snaps. "If you two-bit Sherlock Holmes wannabes woulda looked close enough, you woulda found it."

"I've found it," Ed says, holding up a silver key on a string. "It was on the end table by her cigarettes." He tosses it to Brinkman, who hands it to Liz. Her fingers shake as she tries to unlock the padlock, causing the key to fall to the floor with a metallic clink.

"Here, let me try," I say, breaking free from Jim's grasp. Liz hands me off the key and I slip it into the keyhole, twisting it. The lock sticks, and from behind the door, the children have quit screaming and pounding, their fear reduced to muted whimpering sounds that tear at my heart. "Damn it, c'mon," I urge the lock, twisting the key once more. The padlock clicks open and I jerk it free from the hasp, throwing it down the hallway, where it lands against the wall with a heavy thunk. I yank the door open, and two very frightened and wide-eyed children stare up at me with tear-stained faces, the wailing baby clutched tightly in the arms of his eight-year-old brother.

"MOMMY!" the little girl shrieks and rushes out of the cramped little closet, scampering down the hallway to where her mother sits cuffed on the couch, her older brother hot on her heels. "Oh, Mommy, don' lock us away again, we promise to be good!" she weeps, throwing her arms around her mother's knees, hugging her tightly.

"Mommy, we was scared," the little boy cries, trying to hug his mother's neck while still holding the squalling, squirming baby. "It was dark in there and we both be scared of the dark."

"Get away from me," Tammy growls in a low tone, her eyes flashing dangerously. "You get away from me."

"But Mommy…" the little girl sobs, arms still clasped around her mother's legs. She looks up at her mother, tears flowing from her eyes. "Don't you love us no more?"

"GET AWAY FROM ME!" Tammy shrieks at the top of her lungs. She then kicks viciously at the little girl, breaking her hold and sending her tumbling backwards into the coffee table with a crash. Tammy next turns her fury on the little boy and the baby he's clutching. "SHUT THE HELL UP!" she screams in the infant's face, causing the baby to scream louder, as the little boy recoils away from her in fear. "JUST SHUT THE HELL UP! THAT'S ALL YOU GODDAMNED KIDS KNOW HOW TO DO, IS CRY AND WHINE!"

"Get her out of here!" I yelp at Brinkman and Wells.

"Don't you touch me!" she yells at them. She kicks out at them as they approach her. "You lay a finger on me and I'll have your goddamned badges!"

I turn to Liz, who is watching the Tammy show with undisguised horror. "Get the kids back to a bedroom or something," I tell her sharply. "They don't need to see this."

"Right," she says, nodding. "Come on," she says, removing the baby from Boyd's arms, and taking Boyd by the hand. She holds her other hand out to Raylene, who darts fearfully around her mother, staying out of kicking range, to grab onto Liz's hand for dear life. Liz quickly guides them down the hallway to a back bedroom, where she shuts the door.

"Now, you have two choices, Tammy," Brinkman tells her. "You can either stop acting like this and come along quietly, or we'll drag you out of here in restraints."

"You go to hell!" she growls at Brinkman, then she kicks at the coffee table with her feet, knocking it over with a resounding thud, sending the junk atop it flying every which way across the room.

"I think we'd better call for Mac," Reed says, eyeing Tammy, who is just daring us to make another move towards her. "Have him en route out here with hobbles."

And just as he says it, there's a knock on the door, and Sergeant MacDonald enters. "What's going on here?" he asks, looking around at the disastrous mess of a living room. He pins his gaze on Tammy, who glares back. "Are you giving my officers a hard time, Tammy?" he asks.

"Go screw yourself, MacDonald," Tammy snarls at him.

"We were assisting a DCW worker doing an emergency removal of Tammy's children," I tell him. "She's been giving us static since we got here. We found the kids locked in a hall closet, but she wouldn't tell us where the key was at."

"That asshole tried to assault me!" she cries, jerking her head at me. "It's police brutality!"

"Tammy," Mac says, looking at her. "Shut up."

"Anyway, after we placed her in cuffs, we found the key to the padlock she'd placed on the closet door, and we were able to free the kids," I tell him.

"Where are they at now?" Mac asks.

"In one of the bedrooms, with Liz Grant from DCW," I say. "I didn't figure they needed to see this."

"No," Mac says, shaking his head. "They don't. What kind of charges have we got on her so far?" he asks.

"Interference with official acts," I tell him. "Possession of drug paraphenalia, since we found a hype kit in plain view on her coffee table. Assault, since she spit on me and hit Brinkman in the shoulder with her fist. And there's likely a whole slew of charges stemming from her neglect and abuse of her kids."

"Enough for a felony charge of child abuse?" he asks.

"Most likely," I say. "I haven't had a chance to look at the kids really well yet, but her actions just a little while ago are enough to support a suspicion of physical abuse."

Mac frowns. "Why, what'd she do?"

"When we freed the kids from the closet, they came running to her for comfort," Jim says. "She kicked the little girl into the coffee table, and screamed at the little boy and baby."

"Is that how the coffee table got knocked over?" Mac asks.

"No, she did that herself," I say.

"Alright," Mac sighs. "Last time we were out here, she fought us the whole way, so I'm going to go out and get the hobbles and the gag from my car, in case she decides to do the same now." He leaves, returning in a moment with the leg hobbles and the cloth gag. It's in an extreme case that we have to use such restraints on a prisoner, but it's for both our safety and theirs. And they are only applied under the supervision of the sergeant, to avoid any liability issues or charges of police brutality.

"On your feet, Tammy, let's go," Ed says, tugging on her upper arm.

"Lemme alone!" she snaps. She whips her head around and tries to bite him, her mouth closing around the cloth sleeve of his coat.

"Sonofabitch," Ed hisses, yanking his arm away. "She's gonna try to bite, just like she did last time," he tells Mac. "Might as well go ahead and restrain her, Mac."

"Let's gag her first, then we'll hobble her," Mac says. "Ed, you and Brinkman grab her arms, while Pete and Jim grab her feet. I'll get her head."

Hissing and spitting like an angry alleycat, Tammy rains a thundercloud of curse words down on our heads as we approach her. "Get the hell away from me, you pigs!" she screams, kicking at us once more.

However, she's no match for five cops that tackle her at once. Brinkman and Wells grab her upper arms, while Jim and I grab her legs, wrapping her so tightly in our grips that she can't break loose, even as she kicks and squirms mightly in our grasps. She snaps her head from side to side, trying to bite either Brink or Ed, but they manage to avoid her teeth as we transfer her from the couch to the floor. We place her face-down on her stomach, still yelling and screaming, and while Brink and Ed pin her shoulders to the floor, Mac deftly slips the soft cloth gag over her head, tucking it into her mouth so that she can't spit or bite during transport. He slips the knot to tighten it, leaving enough room for her to breathe, but not so loose enough that she can work free from it. Keeping his knee in the small of her back in order to keep her compliant, he undoes the leather hobbles. "Go ahead and bring her ankles up," he says to Reed and I. She stiffens her legs, trying to prevent us from bending them, but Mac presses down slightly with his knee, encouraging her to comply. "C'mon, Tammy, give it up," he tells her. "The fight is over." He gets a bunch of muffled curse words in reply, and when she still doesn't comply, he presses a bit harder, finally forcing her to relent. Looping first one hobble around an ankle, then the other, he slides the buckles on each to tighten them, then he nods to Reed and I. "Go ahead and let her have just a little slack," he says. "We don't want her too tightly bound that she can dislocate her shoulder if she struggles." We ease her legs down a bit, and Mac snaps the clasp of the hobble leash around the chain of the handcuffs. She can still squirm, but if she kicks her legs, she'll pull at her wrist chain, causing her to be very uncomfortable. Mac quickly rattles off her Miranda rights to her. "Okay, let's get her out to the car," he says after he reads the Miranda rights, standing up. With Brinkman and Wells grabbing her arms, and Reed and I grabbing her around the knees, we hoist her up, hauling her towards the door. Mac opens the door and we carry her out, still struggling, her invectives muffled under the gag. "Watch the steps," Mac tells us, leading us out onto the rickety wooden porch, our burden squirming in our grasps. We carry her over the rotten wooden steps of the porch to the front lawn. A few neighbors stand around on the sidewalks nearby, watching the scene with little interest. Evidently this scene is nothing new to any of them.

"Whose car do you want her in?" Reed asks.

"Adam-45," Mac says. "I'm going to have Wells and Brinkman go ahead and transport her to Sybil Brand and get her booked in." He opens first the rear passenger door of Adam-45, then he goes around and opens the driver's side rear door. Keeping Tammy face-down, we carefully slide her into the back seat, Mac tugging on her shoulders to position her as comfortably as possible. "Let me get the safety strap out of my car," he says, going to his black-and-white station wagon. He comes back with a webbed safety harness, and this he hooks into a clasp hidden under the upper portion of the rear seat. He slips the strap around Tammy's upper body, fastening the other end of the strap into another hidden clasp. This is to prevent her from falling forward onto the floor if the squad car should stop suddenly or get into an accident during transport. Seeing that she's safely tucked in, we shut the doors. "You two go ahead and take off with her, I'll be following shortly," Mac tells Ed and Brinkman.

"Right, Mac," Ed says, as he and Brinkman climb into the car. "Hey," he says to me before he shuts the passenger door. "You and Reed wanna meet up later at Whataburger for seven?"

"Maybe," Reed says, at the same time I say, "No." Reed glances at me, then he shrugs. "We'll see," he tells Ed.

"Give us a holler on the radio if you decide you want to," Ed says, closing the door. Adam-45 pulls away from the curb with its unhappy cargo in the backseat.

"How'd you figure we were going to need you out here?" I ask Mac.

"I've dealt with Tammy before," Mac says, climbing into his car. "She pulled this same stunt last time and we ended up using restraints on her. I'm going to head over to Sybil Brand in order to do the report on using restraints on her during arrest. You two stay here and finish up with the removal. We'll go with the preliminary charges of interference and assault, and child abuse. If the child abuse charges need to be upgraded, have the DCW worker contact me."

"Will do, Mac," I tell him. As he pulls away, Reed and I head back up to the house.

"Good Christ, what a scene," Reed says, wearily rubbing his forehead.

"Yeah, and it ain't over yet, either," I say, opening the door to the hellhole once more. "Liz?" I call out, starting down the hallway. "It's okay now, Tammy's been taken away."

She opens the door to the bedroom where they're hiding at. "Pete, come in here and look at this," she says, motioning to me.

Reed and I step into the bedroom, which must be the children's. A filthy and stained mattress lies on the floor, with only a thin blanket wadded up at the foot. An orange crate serves as a nightstand, while a flimsy cardboard chest serves as a bureau. There is no changing table for the baby, and the reek of dirty diapers is thick back here. There is also no crib for the baby to sleep in, only a large cardboard box with a thin baby blanket tucked inside. A few scraggly and scarred toys are scattered about the floor, while a rickety folding chair in the corner serves as the only seat in the room. This room is the one that has the window busted out of it, the plywood covering it up. Chill air seeps in around the edges of the plywood. The two children shiver as they stare at us with wide eyes.

"What is it you need us to see?" I ask Liz.

"Boyd, honey, come here and let Officer Malloy and Officer Reed look at you a moment," Liz says gently to the little boy. "Show him the marks on your arms and chest." She glances at Jim. "You might want to document this, Jim, for your report."

He reluctantly approaches Reed and I, his grey eyes filled with mistrust and suspicion. In the light from overhead, it's obvious that Boyd has been neglected. He is very thin and malnourished, his fragile bones poking through the skin over his collarbone and joint areas. His clothing is filthy and ill-fitting; the green pants too short, while the thin yellow shirt he wears comes nearly down to his knees. His blonde hair is scruffy and in need of a haircut and his scuffed tennis shoes have holes in the toes, the soles worn thin. He slips the sleeves of his shirt up, revealing purplish bruises from his forearms to his thin biceps. He pulls his shirt up to show a large bruise on his chest.

"Show them the marks on your back, sweetie," Liz tells him.

He turns around, revealing long, thin welts laced with blood on his back. I recognize the pattern of welt-marks with a wince, since I had more than my fair share of them when I was a kid. "Looks like someone used a belt on him," I murmur to Reed, who is writing brief descriptors of Boyd's injuries in his notebook.

"Who did this to you, Boyd?" I ask gently.

He shrugs, lowering his shirt. "Mommy," he says. "She says I never mind her, so she hasta hit me." He nods to his sister. "Raylene, too."

"Raylene, come here, honey, let the officers look at you for a moment," Liz says to the little girl. She holds her hands out to her.

Peering at us shyly with dark blue eyes, her fingers stuck in her mouth, she goes to Liz. She, too, has been woefully neglected, her body as thin and fragile as a bird's. Her long brown hair is matted and in tangles, and she wears only sandals on her feet in this cold weather. Her pink pinafore is dirty and a size too small for her, her red sweater nubby and motheaten. Liz gently pulls the sleeves of Raylene's sweater up to reveal purple bruises on her arms, then she tips Raylene's head back for a moment, exposing vicious mottled fingerprints around her delicate neck, as if someone grabbed her and tried to strangle the life right out of her.

I kneel down to get a closer look at the marks on Raylene's neck. "Jesus," I say softly, standing back up. "Someone tried to strangle her."

"And look at this," Liz says, turning Raylene sideways. She pulls up the skirt of Raylene's pinafore a little ways to reveal the same kind of whipping marks Boyd had, only these are on Raylene's legs and thighs. "I don't doubt that there's some on her back, too," Liz says. She stands up. "But that's not the worst of it," she says. She goes over to where the now-quiet baby is lying on the mattress. Kneeling down once more, she pulls his tiny t-shirt up, exposing what looks like slap marks from someone's palm on his small stomach. He kicks and gurgles happily at Liz, who gently grabs one tiny leg in her hand, pointing out what looks like a human bite mark on his upper thigh. "Someone bit him, Pete."

"Are you writing all of this down?" I ask, looking over at Reed.

"Yes," he says, ashen-faced and grim with shock at the sight of the children's injuries. "Every single bit of it." There is an edge of steely anger in his voice.

"Your mom did all of this to you kids?" I ask Boyd.

He nods. "Most of it. Sometimes her boyfriends are mean to us, too. She tells 'em to hit us when we're bein' naughty. It was her boyfriend, Chuck, that bit Joey on the leg 'cuz he wouldn't stop cryin'."

"Why did she lock you in the closet?" I ask.

He shrugs, a world-weary shrug for an eight-year-old boy. "We wanted to know if Santa was gonna come tonight, and she didn't like us askin' that. So she put us in the bad closet, since we were bein' bad." He looks at me with a steady gaze, his eyes old beyond his tender years. "Mommy went to jail, right?" he asks.

"Yes, for a little while," I tell him gently.

Raylene has edged cautiously over to me and stands next to me, gazing up at me with those woeful blue eyes. "Don't Mommy love us no more?" she asks.

I gaze back at her, unsure of what to say to the tiny girl. "Well, yes," I say hesitantly, deciding to go with a large white lie. "But your mommy is not well, and her sickness makes it hard for her to show you that she loves you." I kneel down so that I'm on her level. "She loves all three of you very much, Raylene," I assure her, putting a hand on her shoulder. "She just doesn't know how to show it."

"Chuck loves me," Raylene tells me shyly. "I know he does."

A dart of unease shoots through me as I glance up at Liz. "What do you mean, honey?" I ask Raylene, dread filling me as I can easily guess as to what her answer will be.

She chews on her fingers for a moment, blue eyes watching me carefully, as if she's gauging whether or not I'm worthy of the information she's about to impart. "He takes me into Mommy's bedroom sometimes," she tells me matter-of-factly. "When Mommy's asleep on the couch. He takes off my panties and touches me, then he makes me touch him." She screws her face up in disgust. "It's icky, but if I let him do it, he tells me he won't hit us. And he usually doesn't." She shrugs. "Sometimes Mommy's other boyfriends do the same thing to me, too."

A sharp wave of nausea and deep disgust washes over me, and I hear Reed draw in a sharp breath next to me. "Oh Jesus," I mutter softly, closing my eyes for a moment. Child molestors are the vilest scum on the face of the earth, taking advantage of an innocent kid in order to satisfy their own sick needs. If I had my way, they'd all be castrated with a pair of very rusty and dull nail scissors.

"Could I please have a word with you two?" Liz asks.

"Yeah, sure," I say, standing up. "You kids stay here, okay?" I ask, as we follow Liz out into the hall.

"Before I take them to McLaren, they'll be going to Rampart to be checked over," she says. "I was wondering if you could have one of your detectives meet me over there, so we can start the investigation into the possible sexual abuse of Raylene right away."

"I'll go do that right now," Reed says, still pale. He looks a little green around the gills and is a little shaky.

"Yeah, go ahead," I tell him, figuring the fresh air will do him good.

Cramming his notebook back into his pocket, he strides quickly down the hallway and through the living room, the front door slamming shut behind him.

"If we can get some names of the men who've possibly molested her, you'll start looking for them, won't you?" she asks. "Along with the ones who've physically abused these kids?"

"Yeah," I tell her. "Providing the names aren't false and they don't skip town. If they hear Tammy's gone down for child abuse, my guess is they'll beat a hasty retreat in order to avoid getting arrested." I shake my head. "I don't understand. If she had her kids taken away before, how the hell did she ever get them back this last time?"

"She had cleaned up her act," Liz says. "She proved to the court that she was staying clean and sober, and that she was capable of providing a stable and safe home life for her kids. She agreed to random home checks by her state caseworker, and she evidently managed to pass each check."

"But somebody must have dropped the ball somewhere," I tell her. "This house couldn't have gotten this way overnight, it's evident that it's been going on for some time now."

"Yes, and I agree," Liz says. "I'm going to personally look into it myself. These intolerable conditions should have been caught long before now. Either the state worker was slacking off and letting her slide, while giving her glowing reports, or something. And I intend to find out, believe me."

Suddenly I feel a small hand slip into my larger hand, and tiny fingers clutch tightly at my index and middle fingers. I look down to see Raylene peering up at me with those sad blue eyes. She has crept softly down the hallway during our conversation. "Are you mad at us?" she asks me.

Kneeling down, I gather her into my arms. "No, honey, we're not mad at you kids at all. What makes you think that?"

"'Cuz Mommy says that everyone hates us, we're evil kids and no one likes evil kids," she whispers against my shoulder. "I don't want no one to hate us, we're not evil."

My eyes meet Liz's in horror. How could a mother tell her own children something like that? "No, now that's silly," I reassure Raylene, patting her gently on the back. "You are not evil kids, and no one hates you, sweetheart. That's just a fib your Mommy told you to hurt you."

"But why?" she asks, pulling away from me to gaze at me. "Why would Mommy do that?"

"Sometimes mommies say things that they don't mean, honey," Liz tells her gently. "Especially if they're hurting on the inside themselves."

"I like you," Raylene tells me shyly. "What's your name?"

"Pete," I tell her. "And I like you, too, Raylene." With that pronouncement, Raylene buries her face in my shoulder, and I feel my heart break into tiny pieces as I hug her fragile body to me, the cast-iron defenses I've thrown up around my heart and my soul in order to keep myself sane in this job, falling crumbling away to sit like lead in the pit of my stomach. The knowledge that these children have endured so much hell in their young lives tears at me with razor-sharp talons. I feel like crying as I hug Raylene to me, wishing like hell that I could their misery and their fear and their wounds, both inner and outer, away from them with a wave of a magic wand. But I possess no such magical powers, being nothing more than a mere mortal.

Liz has gone back into the bedroom and retrieved the baby. Cradling him in her arm, she leads Boyd by the hand. "Let's go, children," she says to Boyd and Raylene. "So we can get you settled in at McLaren Hall before tonight."

"I don' wanna go to McLaren," Raylene protests. "I wanna stay with Pete. He's my friend."

"Honey, you can't stay with Pete, he's a police officer and he needs to get back to his job," Liz tells her gently.

"Besides, there'll be other kids at McLaren that you can play with," I tell her, forcing a note of cheer that I definitely don't feel into my voice. "You'll have a good hot meal, some clean clothes, and a warm bed to sleep in. It won't be so bad, you'll see." I stand up and Raylene clings tightly to my leg.

"How would you know?" Boyd challenges me. "Have you ever stayed there?" His question stuns me in its brutal simplicity. "Well, no," I tell him hesitantly. "I haven't."

"Then you're lucky, you don't know what it's like," he says, looking away, his grey eyes filled with anger.

"Pete?" Raylene asks, tugging gently on my pant leg.

"What is it, honey?" I ask, kneeling back down.

"Will Santa Claus find us at McLaren Hall?" she asks in a tiny voice.

"Raylene, there is no Santa Claus," Boyd tells her in disgust. "Mama was right, he doesn't exist."

"Is that true?" she asks, looking at me with wide, frightened eyes. "Then how do we get our presents?"

"No, it's not true, sweetie," I assure her. "There definitely is a Santa Claus, believe me. And he'll find you wherever you are, even at McLaren Hall." I can still see she doubts me, so I fib a bit. "I know there's a Santa Claus, Raylene, because I've seen him with my own eyes."

"Yeah," Boyd tells me, rolling his eyes. "Probably in a department store."

"No, it was when I was a little kid," I say. "I saw him putting presents under our Christmas tree one Christmas Eve. And I heard his reindeer up on the roof." The lie slips so easily from my lips, I nearly believe it myself.

Raylene looks at me with admiration. "Did he go up the chimney?"

I nod. "He sure did," I tell her. "And I heard him take off in his sleigh, the bells ringing like crazy."

"Did he see you?" Boyd asks, now slightly curious.

"Nope. I didn't make a sound, so he never knew I was there," I tell him. "So you see, there really IS a Santa Claus. And don't worry, he'll find you."

"Now then, before we go, is there anything special you kids would like to take to McLaren Hall with you?" Liz asks Raylene and Boyd.

"There's nothing here that I want," Boyd says, his voice harshly bitter for an eight-year-old.

"Let's get going, then," she says, baby Joey nestled quietly in her arms. She leads Boyd to the door.

Raylene balks, and I look down at her. "Would you like me to carry you?" I ask her. She nods, and I bend over, scooping her up into my arms. I follow Liz and Boyd to the door.

"Make sure you lock it behind you, Pete," Liz says over her shoulder. "Tammy likes to claim that we don't do that, thus allowing people to break into the house and steal her belongings."

"Got it," I say, locking the door and pulling it shut behind me.

Reed gets out of the squad car as we come down the cracked cement steps. "I called, and there should be a couple of detectives waiting for you at Rampart Hospital," he says to Liz as she opens the rear door of her sedan. Boyd scrambles in first, crawling around the infant seat in the middle of the back seat.

"Good," Liz says, buckling Joey into the infant seat. "I would like a copy of your report for out here, if that's possible. The more evidence we can gather against Tammy and her boyfriends, the worse the charges against them will be." Straightening up, she holds her arms for Raylene. "Come on, honey, let's get in the car."

"No," Raylene politely informs her. "I wan' Pete to do it." She clutches firmly at the shoulder epaulets on my coat.

Liz gives me a slight smile. "Looks like you've made quite a friend, Pete."

"Yeah, I guess I have," I say as I gently put Raylene into the backseat, fastening her seatbelt over her lap.

Suddenly, her eyes go wide. "Oh no, I forgot Nestor!" she says fearfully.

"Who's Nestor?" I ask.

"My donkey!" she tells me worriedly. "He won't sleep if I'm not there with him! And he'll be scared if I leave him behind!" She looks hopefully at me. "Can you go get him, Pete? Please?"

"But the door's locked," I say. "Is there a spare key anywhere?"

Boyd shakes his head. "No, Mama doesn't keep a spare key outside."

"I need Nestor!" Raylene says, rapidly cycling into a fit of panic. "I won't go without Nestor!" She begins to undo the seatbelt.

I stop her. "Whoa, now, Raylene. Lemme see if I can go get Nestor for you, okay?" I look at Boyd. "Do you know if any of the windows are unlocked?"

He thinks for a moment. "The one in Mommy's bedroom is, I think. It's the one on the side of the house that isn't boarded up. If someone could boost me up to the window, I can climb in and get him."

"No, we don't want you getting hurt, Boyd," I say. "Where would Nestor be at in the house?" I ask Raylene.

"Right by the bed," she tells me. "I put him down for a nap."

"Alright, let's go see if the window's unlocked," I tell Jim. "If not, we'll have to see if we can pop the lock on the door somehow." The two of us walk around to the side of the house where the unbroken window Boyd indicated is at. I put my hands against the sash, pushing up on the window pane. It slides up easily. "Boyd was right," I say. "She left the window unlocked."

Reed eyes the window. "Maybe you'd better let me get in there, Pete. I'm a little skinnier than you are. I'll fit better."

"No, I told Raylene I'd get her donkey for her and I will," I tell him a bit sharply, unbuckling my gunbelt. I lay it on the ground. "Gimmie a boost," I tell him.

"Seriously, Pete, I think you'd better let me do it," he says warningly. "I don't think you're gonna fit."

"I'll fit, damn it," I tell him. "Now give me a boost up, Reed."

"Alright," he says warily. "But if you get stuck, I swear, I'm not responsible for my actions." He kneels down, cupping his hands together.

"Whaddaya mean?" I ask, stepping into his cupped hands. I grab onto the window frame for support as the great donkey rescue gets underway. I try to hoist myself up.

"OOF," he says, groaning under my weight. "Christ, how much do you weigh, Pete? A ton?"

"Stuff it, stringbean," I tell him. "And give me a shove. I can't hoist myself up without some help here. The window's too damned high."

"I'm  _trying_ ," he says, shoving me high enough to balance myself on the sash. "And what I mean is, if you get your big fat ass stuck in that window frame, I'll hafta call the fire department to come get you out. And that's AFTER I've called Mac and the rest of our shiftmates to come get a good view, first. I might even see if we can get pictures."

"You wouldn't," I grumble. Grasping the window frame with my hands, I begin to wriggle my way inside. I manage to get my head and shoulders in, but I hit a snag when I realize that the window isn't wide enough to permit me to swing my legs around and balance myself. If I keep going, I'm going to end up falling through the window and landing on the floor headfirst. "Oh shit," I mutter, eyeing the floor warily. It's either straight in the window, or else. And that is no longer an option either, since I am now ever-so-slightly stuck. But I don't dare tell my partner that.

"What, let me guess, you're stuck," Reed says sarcastically.

"I'm not stuck," I tell him, huffing slightly from supporting my weight on the window ledge. "I just hit a minor snag. There's not enough room for me to swing around and balance myself. I either continue in headfirst, or I back out. If I continue in, I'm gonna land on the floor, right on my head."

"And that would be a problem, how?" he asks, jumping up and trying to peek in the window around me. "I mean, your head is pretty hard, Pete, so it's not like it's gonna do a lot of damage."

"Says the thickheaded fool himself," I wheeze.

"Do you wanna come back out of there?" he asks. "And we'll try popping the lock on the door?"

I eyeball the floor beneath me once more, rapidly weighing my options. If I'm careful, I can probably get through the window and still manage to land on the floor without cracking my head open. And since I'm already halfway in, I figure I might as well try to make it the rest of the way in. "No, I'll try and get the rest of the way through," I tell him.

"So whaddaya want me to do, give you a huge shove then?" he asks. "And please realize that there ain't no way in HELL I'm touching your ass in order to get you through that window, Pete."

"Just push on my legs," I instruct him. The pressure of the window frame against my chest and stomach is getting uncomfortable. I wriggle my upper body, trying to squirm the rest of the way in.

"Don't kick me, okay?" Reed asks, grabbing me around the ankles. He pushes at me, but I only budge a little bit. "I knew it," he says, laughing gleefully at my predicament. "You're good and stuck, Mr. Plumpkin."

"I am NOT STUCK!" I rasp, beginning to feel a bit lightheaded from not being able to breathe all that well. I kick my legs against the side of the house, trying to gain leverage. "I think maybe I'd have been better off buying Raylene a new donkey than to go through all this trouble," I grumble.

"Try sucking your gut in," he offers helpfully.

"I'm DOING that," I wheeze, struggling to heave myself through the frame. "You're just not shoving hard enough, Idiot Boy!"

"Okay, fine," he says, grabbing my ankles once more. "One, two, three, PUSH!" he shouts, pushing on me as hard as he can.

His unexpected forceful shove has the desired effect as I suddenly find myself popping free from the dratted window frame and crashing nearly headfirst onto the floor, the awful sound of tearing cloth following behind me.

"Uh…you okay, Pete?" he asks, jumping up and catching the window frame in his hands, peering in at me.

"I dunno," I say, slightly stunned from my sudden crash-landing on the floor. "Tell the little birdies tweeting around my head to shut up and I'll let you know." Gingerly I begin to pick myself up off of the floor, testing to make sure all my parts still work. Fortunately, I haven't fallen into any furniture, mostly because there IS no furniture in the bedroom. "I don't think I injured anything important…"

"Like your ass?" he asks. "Because, as you know, that's VERY important."

"Like my head, you jerk." I glare at him. "Why in the hell didn't you give me any warning that you were gonna shove me like that?" I ask.

"What did you think the one-two-three was, a counting game?" he replies somewhat snarkily. "What tore on your uniform?" he asks, dropping back to the ground under the window after he sees that I'm alright. "I seriously hope it was not your pants. I do NOT need to be treated to that kind of a sight."

"You and me both," I say, running my hands over my uniform pants and finding no holes in the fabric at all. "Nope, not the pants," I tell him. Then I spot part of the lining of my coat hanging down. "It's the inside of my coat that tore," I say. "It must have caught on a nail in the window frame or something."

"Well, whatever," he says from the outside. "Hurry up and find Raylene's donkey, I'm freezing out here."

"Whaddaya think I'M doing?" I ask. I look out the window at him. "I'll get the donkey and meet you back at Liz's car, okay?"

"Oh, you mean you're not gonna try to go through the window again, Chubby?" he asks, chortling.

I roll my eyes. "Whaddaya think I am, a glutton for punishment?"

"Well, you're a glutton alright," he jibes merrily. I can hear him laughing as he heads back to the cars out front.

I shut the window then I cross Tammy's bedroom, which is in about the same shape as the children's bedroom, with a filthy mattress on the floor and an orange crate nightstand. She probably sold most of their furniture for booze and drug money. I step around a pile of dirty laundry near the bedroom door as I make my way to the kids' room. It's quite dark in here now, and I reach for my flashlight in my back pocket so that I can see where the hell I'm going. Then I realize I don't have it with me, since it was still daylight out when we first got here. Grumbling under my breath, I fumble for the wall switch in the kids' room, recoiling when I touch something that skitters away under my fingers. Pulling my pen out of my pocket, I quickly flip the switch on, grimacing as a bevy of roaches scurry into the cracks in the drywall. Scanning the room, I locate a small stuffed grey donkey on top of the mattress, and I reach down, plucking him up. His plush fur is worn thin in several spots, matted in others, and his long ears are rather tattered and torn. His plastic eyes gaze mournfully at me, much like his beloved mistress'. "I hope you know I went to a lot of trouble to get you, Nestor," I say, gently rubbing a thumb across his fur. Tucking him into the side of my coat that isn't torn, I flick off the light in the bedroom and head for the front door. Luckily there's enough light from the one lamp in the living room to see where I'm going. I unlock the front door and step outside.

Reed is waiting for me outside the door when I open it. "I figured you'd need some light to see once you got out here," he says, shining his flashlight over the steps. "And I brought you your flashlight, too, along with your gunbelt."

"Thanks," I say, pulling the door shut and relocking it behind me. Taking my gunbelt from his hand, I put it back on, rebuckling it around my waist. He hands me the flashlight and I turn it on, the beam shining brightly over the dismal yard.

"Well, I didn't want you falling through the rotten steps here on the porch and breaking your leg," he says, starting down the front walk.

"Your concern for my safety is touching," I say, a bit sarcastically.

"Concern, hell," he says, grinning. "I just didn't wanna hafta shoot you like they do horses when they break their legs."

Liz is sitting in the passenger seat of her car, the engine running and the heater going full blast to keep the kids warm. Raylene is sitting on her lap, evidently unwilling to remain buckled into the backseat until I returned with her donkey. Liz smiles widely when she sees me, and I know that Reed filled her in on the window escapade, sparing no details whatsoever.

"Hey, look who I found," I say, pulling Nestor from inside of my coat.

"NESTOR!" Raylene shrieks, leaping off of Liz's lap and flying at me, tackling me around my legs in a gigantic hug. "You found Nestor!"

"I told you I'd get him and I never go back on my word," I tell Raylene, ruffling her hair. "Now how about we get you back into the car so you can go with Miss Liz?"

"Only if you do it," Raylene says, taking my fingers into her small hand, tugging on me.

"Sure," I sigh, along myself to be pulled along behind her. "Why not?" I help her into the backseat once more, rebuckling her lap belt. In the seat next to her, the baby sleeps in his carseat, while Boyd dozes, his head resting against the door frame.

"Will you come see us, Pete?" Raylene asks, hugging Nestor tightly to her.

"Well…" I begin, but Liz interrupts me.

"Now Raylene, Pete's very busy, honey, and he may not get a chance to come see you," Liz tells her. "But I'm sure he'll try if he can, right, Pete?"

"Right," I say. "You take care of Nestor, okay?" I gently shut the car door, trying not to wake the sleeping boys up.

"Hey Liz," Jim says, motioning her away from the car. "They will get some sort of presents for Christmas, won't they?" he asks in a low tone.

"We have some things that have been donated, yes," she tells us. "So they won't be empty-handed on Christmas morning. The most important thing is that they'll be taken care of. I realize that McLaren's not the Hilton, but it's got to be better than this, and you know it."

"I know," he says, his voice tinged with sadness. "But I can't help but feel bad for them. It's not right, to have to spend Christmas in McLaren Hall."

"No one ever wants to spend Christmas away from home, Jim, but they don't have a choice," she tells Jim gently. "You have to admit, this is not a good home for them at all, here with their drunken and abusive mother." She looks at me. "If you guys could get me a copy of your report within a couple of days, I'd really appreciate it."

"Will do, Liz," I tell her.

She goes around to the driver's side of her car. "And thanks for all the help out here, including rescuing the donkey, Pete." She pulls something out of her pocket and hands it to me: a small safety pin. "Use that to pin up your coat lining until you can get it fixed," she says. She gives me a wink. "And next time, let your skinnier partner go in through the window, okay?"

I shoot Reed a deadly look. "Uh…yeah," I say. "I'll do that, Liz."

"Pete!" Raylene calls, motionining frantically from the backseat for me to open the door.

I open it, hoping that she's not going to ask me to rescue another stuffed animal from inside the residence. "What is it, Raylene?" I ask.

She motions me to come close to her, and when I do, she wraps her arms around my neck in a huge hug. She squeezes me tight. "Thank you, Pete, for getting Nestor," she tells me shyly, then she gives me a kiss on the cheek.

"Uh…you're welcome, Raylene," I tell her gruffly, as sudden emotions clog up in my throat. I step back, shutting the door once more.

"You and Jim have a merry Christmas," Liz tells us, climbing into her car.

"Yeah, you too," Reed tells her, then Liz shuts her door. The last thing I see is Raylene's sad little face peering at me out of the rear window, waving as the car pulls away, the taillights glowing red in the darkness. "Tugs at your heart, doesn't it?" Reed asks as we watch the car depart. "Nearly breaks it in two."

"You need to grow thicker skin," I tell him sharply. "Or on this job, your heart will get broken at least twice a day."

He looks over at me. "Is that how you deal with it? You just grow thicker skin, Pete?"

"Thick skin has been a necessity for most of my life," I tell him bitterly. "It's what's kept me sane."

"Christ," he says, shuddering. "I feel like I need to take a shower in hot water and Lysol after being in that dump," he says.

"Yeah, I know," I say, starting back to the squad car. "My skin was crawling the whole time we were in there." I stamp my feet on the pavement and shake my sleeves out.

"Whaddaya doing?" he asks wryly. "The Hokey Pokey?"

"No, I'm making sure I don't have any of the nasty little beasties from inside that house on my uniform," I tell him as I climb into the car.

"Oh," he says, and quickly does the same kind of dance to rid himself of any lingering beasties. "I started on the report for out here," he says as he gets into the squad.

I start the engine up, turning the heat on full blast. "Is that what you were doing out here when you left to call for the detectives?" Taking the safety pin that Liz gave me, I set about pinning up the torn lining of my coat. Luckily it's not too bad, and I fix it well enough to get me through the rest of tonight's watch.

"Yeah, I couldn't face going back into that house, Pete," he admits. "I just couldn't."

I look over at him. "You'd better get used to it, Jim, because believe me, there'll be other child removals worse than this one was."

"I know it," he says wearily, rubbing his forehead. He reaches down, picking up the mike and clearing us with dispatch. "I just feel sad over them having to spend Christmas at McLaren, you know? I mean, sure, it's a helluva lot better place for them to be at right now, but still, it's not home. It would be awful, being a kid and having to spend Christmas in there, worrying if Santa was going to find you in someplace like that. I know I'd hate to be away from home on Christmas, especially if I was a kid."

"I know, Jim, but they had to go, there's no other way," I tell him sharply as I pull away from the curb. "Their home life was horrible and abusive, not to mention dangerous, and the state did them a favor by stepping in and removing them now, before any more damage can be done to them, both physically and emotionally. And Liz told you they'd have some sort of presents to open up tomorrow morning, so Santa won't forget them."

"I just can't imagine a kid living life like that, in a hellhole dump of a house with a screaming psychotic bitch for a mother," he says. "How did they manage?"

I fall silent momentarily, thinking of my own horrible childhood. "They probably did it the same way thousands of other kids do it that are in the same boat they are: they survive day-to-day, hoping that each day will be a helluva lot better than the previous one was," I tell him, that edge of bitterness in my voice once more. "But quit dwelling on it, Reed, otherwise you'll only make yourself depressed. And you don't want that kind of mood for Christmas, do you?"

"No, it's bad enough you're in a grouchy mood," he remarks. He's quiet for a moment, then he speaks. "You gonna go see Raylene at McLaren Hall in a few days?" he asks.

"I doubt it," I say. "She'll probably forget all about asking me."

"I dunno," he says, looking over at me. "She seemed to like you, Pete. And correct me if I'm wrong, but I think I saw you swallowing back a lump in your throat when she hugged you and kissed you, thanking you for rescuing her donkey."

"I was swallowing hard because she nearly choked me when she hugged me," I tell him grumpily. "That's all."

"Uh-huh," he says knowingly. "Methinks the grinch has a heart after all. You had your own little Whoville moment there, Pete."

"My whatville moment?" I ask.

"Your grinchy heart grows with love as you realize the error of your ways," he informs me. "Sheesh, haven't you ever read Dr. Seuss?"

"Not since I graduated to books with larger words in them other than 'green eggs and ham,'" I tell him.

"Ooh, Green Eggs And Ham, a true classic," he says. "I will not eat them here nor there, I will not eat them anywhere! I do not like green eggs and ham, I do not like them, Sam I Am!"

I shoot him a dirty look. "I do not like your silly quips, utter nonsense from your lips. Now stop before you go too far, and I boot your ass out of the car."

"Oh, funn-ee," he says sarcastically. "But, you gotta admit, there were a few little miracles that came out of this whole thing."

"Like what?" I ask.

"Well, like the kids got taken to a better place," he says. "And little Raylene pulled a Cindy-Lou Who on you, thus proving that you do have a heart. And then there's the biggie miracle."

"Which would be?"

He looks over at me, deadpan. "That we didn't have to call the fire department to come uncork you from the window frame that you CLAIM you weren't stuck in." He shoots me a devilish grin, then starts laughing.

"I WASN'T stuck!" I protest. "I coulda gotten out, I just wasn't getting any help from you!"

"Yeah, you coulda gotten out if we greased you up with butter," he says gleefully. "Except, if I know you, you wouldn't have been able to resist the temptation of the butter, and you woulda licked it all off before we got you free."

I glare at him. "You know, I am SERIOUSLY considering making you finish the rest of the watch out on the roof of Adam-12. You can use that big yap of yours and pretend that you're the siren."

"I'd rather use my big yap to sing Christmas carols," he says. He gives me a meaningful look. "I'll be home for Christmas…" he sings, and for once, he's actually not off-key. "You can plan on me. Please have snow..and mistletoe…and presents on the tree. Christmas Eve will find me…where the love light gleams…I'll be home for Christmas…if only in my dreams."

"Huh, it's a true Christmas miracle," I tell him.

"How so?" he asks.

"Your singing is getting slightly better," I say. "I don't hear dogs howling along with you anymore."


	4. Deck The Halls

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **ALL ORIGINAL CONTENT OF THIS STORY IS THE SOLE PROPERTY OF BAMBOOZLEPIG AND MAY NOT BE USED WITHOUT PERMISSION.** In order to enhance the overall plot experience, creative liberties may have been intentionally taken with the real-life protocols depicted herein.

_DECK THE HALLS_

… _Peter, do you remember the Christmas when your dad decided to hang Christmas lights on the outside of the house, and he made you get up onto the roof and help him? And when the two of you were up there affixing the lights to the eaves, you accidentally stapled your scarf to the roof and tore it? And you bumped the ladder with your foot and knocked it over into the big pine tree at the side of the house, stranding you and your dad up there until I came home from noon Mass and heard you two yelling for help? And for all your troubles hanging the lights up, they ended up not working anyway, because several of the bulbs were burned out. Your dad didn't think to check the strands before hanging them, I guess. He was angry that he'd gone to all that work for nothing, and you poor thing, you ended up catching a really bad cold from it all. You were sick in bed for nearly a week with bronchitis._

… _Yes, Mom, I remember that Christmas also. After I stapled my scarf and tore it, Dad got mad at me because that was the scarf Grandma Malloy had knitted for me. And I didn't 'accidentally' bump the ladder, Mom, I knocked it over trying to get down from the roof and away from him, since he was yelling at me for tearing my scarf, and I was afraid he was going to throw the staple gun at me next, or worse yet, throw ME off of the roof. I was scared out of my wits, trapped up there on with a screaming madman who would likely kill me, and I was never so relieved to see your car pull into the driveway that afternoon. And after you put the ladder back up so we could get down, Dad took the belt to me, whipping me for not only knocking over the ladder, but for tearing my scarf besides. Then when we went to turn on the lights, finding out that they didn't work because several of the bulbs were bad, Dad blamed me for that, saying I should have checked the bulbs before we hung them; only I'm not sure how I was supposed to do that, since Dad decided to hang the lights on a sudden drunken whim, pulling them down from the attic one minute and going up on the rooftop with them the next. Yeah, Mom, I remember that Christmas, since I ended up spending it in bed, sick with a fever and bronchitis…_

* * *

"I could go for seven right about now," Reed says. "How about you?"

I shrug. "Yeah, I guess," I say, even though I'm not that hungry, the horror of the inside of Tammy's house still sticking with me.

"Where do you wanna eat at?" he asks.

"I don't care," I say. "Wherever you want, I guess."

"Well, since it's Christmas Eve, and you're obviously not having the best of days today, I'll be nice and let you pick a Chinese restaurant to eat at, if you want," he offers. "For you, Pete, I'll endure Chinese."

The maggots squirming in the cooking pot in the kitchen of Tammy's dump flash before my eyes as I think of all the rice dishes that are part of a Chinese dinner. "Uh…no thanks," I tell him quickly. "I'm not in the mood for Chinese tonight."

"Italian?" he asks.

"No."

"Sub sandwiches?"

"No."

"Duke's?"

"Uh…no, considering how Duke's chili backfired on you the last time we ate there," I tell him. "I do NOT relish driving the squad car with the windows rolled down while it's freezing out, just because you went overboard on the chili."

"Good thing I had my Rolaids," he says. "That heartburn was pretty bad."

"So were the emissional byproducts," I reply. "I wish I'd had a gas mask that night."

"Okay, so Duke's is out," he says. "So where DO you want to eat at, Pete?"

"Biff's, I guess," I say.

"We ate there yesterday," he says.

"So you pick a place," I tell him.

"I just tried to!" he says, voice tinged with exasperation. "What in the hell do you think I was rattling off all those dinner choices for, Pete? Do you think I'm some kind of waiter or something?"

"You are," I say. "A dumbwaiter."

He looks at me for a long moment. "You know, that's pretty bad, Pete, especially for a dry wit like yourself. That was a stupid-ass joke to make. It's not even funny. You must really be off your game tonight," he says.

"Lay off me, okay, Reed?" I ask sharply. "I'm just really tired tonight."

"Oh-ho, so there's a little clue," he says, rubbing his hands together in anticipation. "Something happened last night after we got off work to make you tired and cranky tonight. What was it? Late night with Angie, you sly old fox?"

"It wasn't anything," I tell him. "Now drop it."

"I don't want to eat at Biff's again tonight, Pete," he complains. "How about Whataburger over on Wilshire?"

"Wherever," I tell him with irritation. "I really don't care, just as long as we pick a spot so that I know which way to go in the damned car."

"Whataburger it is," he says, picking up the mike. "Dispatch, this is One-Adam-12 requesting code seven at Whataburger, 3000 Wilshire Boulevard."

 _"One-Adam-12, continue patrol and copy a call,"_  the dispatcher replies.  _"One-Adam-12, see the woman, trouble unknown, 1225 Antler Drive. Handle code two."_

"One-Adam-12, roger," Reed says. "Great," he groans, rolling his eyes. "Now we may not get our seven in tonight, if the air gets busy." He scribbles down the address on the pad attached to the hotsheet desk. "Trouble unknown. That could be  _anything_."

"Do I detect a note of grinchiness in your last comment?" I ask snarkily. "What happened to 'Jim Reed Sings Carols For Your Listening Pleasure'?"

"It's overshadowed by Jim Reed's stomach growling from hunger," he replies. "I can't concentrate on singing when I'm starving."

"I'm sure you'll survive," I tell him. Luckily, we're close by the address, so it's only a couple of minutes before I turn the squad car onto Antler Lane, a relatively new subdivision that's gone up in our area. It consists of expensive, cookie-cutter, two-story homes that all look alike, with rustic brick façades, carefully manicured lawns, and trees that are planted exactly so many feet apart. It's a perfect Stepford setting, and probably the only way the homeowners can tell their homes from their neighbors is by either reading the elaborately stencilled addresses on the curbside or by recognizing the vehicles parked out in the driveways.

"Wow, this neighborhood is  _fann-cee_!" Reed exclaims. "Wonder what digs in this subdivision costs?"

"Upwards of well over a hundred grand," I tell him. "Well out of my price range."

"Yeah, no kidding," he snorts. "Same here. Even if we started saving NOW, we'd only be able to afford this kind of home after we're retired. And that's if we socked away every single penny, too." He sighs dramatically. "That's the bad thing about being a cop, the pay pretty much sucks."

"I didn't sign on for the pay," I tell him. "I signed on because the job sounded interesting and exciting, a change from the factory work I was used to doing."

"I signed on because I thought it was a noble profession," he tells me smugly.

I look over at him, one eyebrow raised. "Oh, really," I say flatly. "How glorious of you."

"I'm kidding, of course," he says. "I signed on for the same reason you did. The job sounded interesting and exciting. It wasn't the same routine, day after day." He points to a lady that is frantically waving us down from a nearby driveway. "I believe there's our PR," he says. "She's waving us down."

"No foolin'," I say sarcastically. "I thought maybe she was trying to land a plane." I pull over to the curb.

"Just so you know, I refuse to let your grinchy mood sour my good one tonight," he tells me archly as we get out of the car.

"Yeah, good luck with that," I reply.

The lady who has waved us down approaches us. "Oh my goodness," she tells us breathily. "I'm so glad you officers got here as quickly as you did!"

"Yes ma'am," I tell her. "I'm Officer Malloy and this is my partner, Officer Reed. What seems to be the trouble?"

"I'm afraid it's Mr. Griswold across the street," she tells me, gesturing to an elaborately-decorated house across the street. While the other homes sport tasteful Christmas displays of a couple of strings of colored lights lined around the eaves, and maybe a wreath on the door, this home looks like someone dumped every sort of Christmas decoration that exists onto the house and yard. Large plastic candy canes line the front walkway, while a huge plastic snowman glows on the lawn. Wooden cutouts of cheery elves surround the front porch, while strings of chaser lights adorn every tiny tree and bush on the property. An enormous Christmas tree stands front and center in the big picture window, while on the door, a large wreath hangs, a red ribbon tied festively around it. In each of the smaller windows of the house glow electric candles of different colors. And the pièce de rèsistance is up on the rooftop, where a nearly life-sized sleigh sits, with good old Santa Claus himself in the driver's seat and nine plastic reindeer preparing for flight. Only there's a slight problem with the scene: Rudolph's shiny red nose has evidently grown weary of lighting the way and has burned out in protest.

"What's your name, ma'am?" Reed asks, pulling his notebook out.

"Stewart," she says. "Mrs. Alma Stewart."

"What's the trouble with Mr. Griswold?" I ask.  _Other than the lack of restraint on his Christmas decorations,_  I mentally add to myself.

"I keep hearing him call for help, but I can't seem to find him anywhere," she says. "He's not in the front yard, and I'm afraid to venture into his backyard."

"Why, does he have a dog back there?" Reed asks. "Or something dangerous that could harm someone?"

"No, no dog and nothing dangerous," she says. She hesitates, then she continues. "Well…I suppose it's silly, but you never know WHAT you'll run across when it comes to Mr. Griswold. I mean, he's a nice neighbor and all that, but he's a bit on the um… _eccentric_  side, I guess you'd say." She frowns. "I don't mean to say that he's weird, or anything like that, but he tends to be a bit overzealous at times, and he can definitely go overboard with his ideas. Like last summer, he decided he wanted to put a marble fountain in the front yard. When the block association refused to grant him the permission to build the fountain, he got mad and put the fountain in his backyard. Only he didn't put it in right, and when he went to turn on the water flow, it blew the top of the fountain off, and it landed in Mrs. Gaynor's backyard. She was quite distressed to find a naked headless cherub cavorting amongst her petunias. Another time, he was tired of the neighborhood cats using his flower beds as their litter boxes, so he put mouse traps all over in his garden to keep the cats away. Unfortunately for Miss Mayfair's Pussywillow, it worked too well. The poor thing had two mouse traps caught on its feet, while another stuck to its tail. And Pussywillow is a purebred Siamese, so you can imagine how mad Miss Mayfair was. I'm afraid Pussywillow will never be the same, either. The poor thing just JUMPS at any kind of clicking sound."

"Yes, but what about the call out here now?" I ask, my patience wearing slightly thin after Mrs. Stewart's recital. "How long have you been hearing Mr. Griswold call for help?"

"I heard him when I came home from grocery shopping about twenty minutes ago," she says. "Oh dear, I hope the poor man is all right." She wrings her hands with worry. "While he's a bit on the odd side, one doesn't like to think of something bad happening to him."

"Well, we'll go over and check it out, Mrs. Stewart," Reed tells her. "In the meantime, why don't you go back inside your house? If we need any further information from you, we'll contact you."

"Are you kidding me?" she asks in surprise. "And miss out on all the excitement?"

Reed shoots her a confused look. "Uh…excitement, ma'am?"

"Whatever trouble that Clark Griswold has gotten himself into, it's bound to be a doozy. Anything he touches turns into disaster," she tells us with undisguised glee.

"Just stay here, ma'am, okay?" I tell her. I start across the street, with Reed lagging behind.

"Sheesh, slow down," he huffs, hurrying to catch up with me. "For an old fart, you sure can walk fast."

"I'm only older than you by eight years, Reed," I tell him over my shoulder.

"Is that in dog years or people years?" he asks wryly.

I glare at him as we reach the high wooden fence that surrounds the Griswold's backyard. "Don't think I'm won't follow through on my threat to make you ride around on the roof of the squad car for the rest of the shift," I warn. Peering over the fence, I shine my flashlight around the yard. "Mr. Griswold, police officers!" I call. "Can you hear me?"

"HELP!" he shouts from somewhere within the confines of the yard. "HELP ME!"

Lifting the gate latch, Reed and I enter, flashlight beams lighting our way across the yard. "Where are you at, Mr. Griswold?" I call. "We don't see you anywhere!"

"That would be because I'm stuck in the pine tree!" he hollers. And immediately, the branches of a big Ponderosa pine tree at the corner of the house start to rattle briskly. "Get me outta here!"

We make our way across the backyard, the beams of our flashlights picking out a large aluminum ladder lying haphazardly on the ground near the pine tree. "Where exactly in the tree are you AT, Mr. Griswold?" I ask, shining the light up through the branches of the tree.

"I'm on this branch," he says, and sure enough, there he is, clinging to a branch about fifteen feet above our heads. He straddles the large branch carefully, his arms wrapped around the trunk of the tree. He peers down at us. "Can you get me down?" he asks.

"Are you hurt, Mr. Griswold?" Reed asks. "We need to call the fire department to get you down if you are."

"No, no fire department," he says hastily. "The neighbors think I cause enough excitement around here as it is. I'm not hurt, Officers, other than a few scratches. Just get me out of this tree, please! The needles are making my butt itch!" He gestures to the ladder lying on the ground. "Look, just take the ladder there and put it up against that bald spot on the tree where the branches have been trimmed away from the house. I've been up here for nearly 45 minutes now and I'm getting really uncomfortable, not to mention cold!"

"You're sure you don't want the fire department?" I ask. "Just to be on the safe side?"

"No," he groans. "No fire department. It's bad enough that you two had to be called. Please, just take the ladder and get me down!"

"Alright," I sigh, as Reed and I pick the ladder up, guiding it carefully through the bald spot of the tree to rest it up against the trunk. "Can you get down?" I ask, as we steady the ladder.

"Yeah, just keep a good hold on that ladder," he says, gingerly inching his way off of the branch he's sitting on. We hold our breaths as he places first one foot, then the other onto one of the rungs of the ladder. He begins to climb carefully down. "Whew!" he says when his feet touch the ground. "I thought I was  _never_  gonna get back on good old terra firma! Thanks, fellas!" he says, smiling and holding out his hand for us to shake. "Clark Griswold, Sr., by the way."

"I'm Officer Malloy and this is my partner, Officer Reed," I tell him, shaking his hand. "How in the world did you end up in the pine tree in the first place, Mr. Griswold?"

"Well," he says, somewhat sheepishly. "My wife noticed that Rudolph's nose had burned out, so I went up on the roof to replace it. That damned kid of mine, Clark Junior, was  _supposed_  to be helping me, holding the ladder in place until I got back down. I got the bulb replaced just fine, but then I noticed that one of the strands of lights on the eaves was sagging, so I went ahead and fixed that while I was up there. When I went to climb back down, Clark had evidently gone back inside. I thought maybe the ladder would be steady enough that I could make it back down anyway. But, I shoulda known, the Griswold luck strikes again. I got about four rungs down from the roof when the ladder started to tip sideways. I guess I musta panicked and leaped for the tree, since that's where I ended up landing. Thank goodness the branch I landed on was sturdy enough to support my weight, huh, fellas?"

"Yeah," Reed says. "Good thing you landed there instead of on the ground, Mr. Griswold. I can't imagine a fall like that from a two-story house would be all that pleasant."

The floodlights on the back patio come on and the patio door opens. A dark-haired teenage boy with glasses and a Who t-shirt steps out. "Hey Dad," he says. "Guess what? The cops are out in…" He catches sight of Reed and I standing next to his dad. "…Front," he finishes lamely. "But I guess you know that, don't you?" he says, chuckling nervously.

"And this is Clark Griswold, Jr., the cause of all this trouble," Mr. Griswold says, gesturing grandly to his son. He shakes his head, fixing his son with a stern look. "Son, just where in the hell did you wander off to when you were supposed to be holding the ladder for me?"

"I thought I heard the phone ringing," Clark Jr. tells him.

"Was it?" his dad asks.

"Nooo…" the kid drawls out. He scuffs at the cement with his sneaker, eyes downcast. "It wasn't."

"So why didn't you come back outside when you found out the phone WASN'T ringing?" Clark Sr. asks in exasperation. "You knew I was up there on the roof, replacing Rudolph's nose."

The kid shrugs, folding his arms across his chest. "I dunno," he says, still looking at the ground beneath his feet. "I remembered Hogan's Heroes was on, so I went into the living room to watch that. I guess I kinda forgot."

"Didn't you hear me calling for help?" his dad asks.

"Nooo…" he drawls out again. "I might've had the tv turned up pretty loud."

Mr. Griswold sighs, rolling his eyes. "Clark, what am I gonna do with you?"

"Um…is that a rhetorical question, Dad?" he asks. "Because usually you ground me for two weeks, take away my allowance, and make me wash the dishes for that same two weeks."

Mr. Griswold stares at him for a moment. "Clark, not only are you going to be punished in the ways you just described, but you're ALSO going to learn about being responsible and not leaving your old man to fall off the ladder into a pine tree."

"Um…okay, how are you gonna teach me responsibility, Dad?" Clark Jr. asks.

"I don't know, I'll think of something," his dad tells him. "And don't be smartass, Clark."

"Sorry, Dad," Clark Jr. says sheepishly. "I guess I wasn't thinking. I didn't mean to cause all this trouble, honest!"

"You're just lucky these two officers were able to get me down from there," his dad replies. He looks at Reed and I. "Thanks again, fellas, for the rescue. I appreciate it. I was worried I'd be spending Christmas in that tree."

"Not a problem, Mr. Griswold," Reed assures him as we start to walk back towards the fence gate. "Glad that we were able to help you. You take care and have a merry Christmas."

"Hey, wait," Mr. Griswold says, momentarily stopping us. "You fellas wanna see something fantastic?"

"Really Mr. Griswold, we need to get back in service," I say.

"Don't worry, it won't take long," he assures us. "Clark, run inside and turn on the lights when I tell you to," Mr. Griswold tells his son. He turns to Reed and I. "C'mon fellas, this sight is best viewed from the front yard."

"But Dad…" Clark protests.

"Just do it!" his dad orders him.

"Alright, fine!" he huffs, going back into the house by the patio door.

"Just wait until you see this!" Mr. Griswold says, following us out to the front yard. "It's amazing, I tell ya, just amazing!" He points to the sidewalk in front of his house. "Stand there, fellas, for the best view!" He cups a hand around his mouth. "Okay, Clark, fire 'em up!" he yells.

Suddenly the entire house is lit up in a blinding display of lights, both multi-colored and white. Christmas music carols out from speakers hidden in the bushes, while the Santa on the roof waves mechanically to passerby. Each of the plastic reindeer light up on the roof, while Rudolph's nose glows bright red. Twinkle lights blink on and off from the porch posts, and all of the window frames are outlined in white lights. It seems like every available outdoor surface on the house is decorated in some form of lights, creating such a bright display that it looks almost like daylight in the area surrounding the home.

"Whaddaya think of that?" he asks happily. "Quite a display, isn't it?" He folds his arms proudly across his chest.

"It certainly is uh…festive," Reed says, blinking in the brightness.

"And eyeball searing," I add, shielding my eyes.

"It's worthy of the displays in the Rockefeller Center, don'tcha think?" he asks.

"Something like that," I say.

"How many lights IS that?" Reed asks in admiration.

"12,500," he says with delight. "Took me only a week to put 'em all up."

"Well, it's a very vivid display," Reed tells him.

"Yes, it is," I tell Mr. Griswold. "I'd venture to say it can probably be seen by passing aircraft. But now my partner and I really need to get back on the air, Mr. Griswold." I start to walk towards the squad car, Reed following me. "Christmas Eve is usually pretty busy for us."

"Oh, sure," he nods. "I understand. Thanks again for the rescue, fellas! You have a merry Christmas!"

"Same to you, Mr. Griswold!" Reed calls. "And try not to fall into anymore pine trees!"

Mr. Griswold waves cheerily to us as we pull away from the curb, nearly in sync with his waving Santa on the roof.

"Well, how about THAT for your Christmas miracle, Pete?" Reed asks after he clears us with dispatch.

"What's so miraculous about that?" I ask. "He's lucky he didn't get hurt."

"Exactly," Reed says. "There's your miracle. Instead of a partridge in a pear tree, we rescued a Griswold from a pine tree." He starts laughing. "Get it, Pete? On the first day of Christmas, my true love gave to me…"

"I got it," I interrupt rather hastily. "And please DO NOT go through all twelve days of Christmas for me, caterwauling about what your true love gave to you, got it?"

"Didn't his display blow your mind?" he asks.

"No," I say. "But I wouldn't be surprised if he didn't end up blowing a fuse. Or even the transformer for the entire neighborhood. Or every power grid within a twelve-mile radius."

"I thought it was pretty," Reed says. "All those lights, all those decorations, it was like a winter wonderland!"

"It was ostentatious and tacky," I say.

"Why?" he asks. "So he went all out and decorated for Christmas, what's ostentatious and tacky about that?"

"It's vulgar," I tell him. "Not to mention probably annoying to his neighbors. Besides, it needs snow to make it pretty."

"I thought you hated snow," Reed says. "That was one of the reasons why you moved from Seattle, because you didn't like the winters."

"Yeah, I do, and that was one of the reasons I never returned there after getting out of the Army," I tell him.

"There were others?" he asks.

"Yes, and I'm not discussing it," I say. "So before you even ask me why, the matter is closed." I reply.

"You really ARE being a grinch, aren't you?" he asks.

"Yep," I tell him. "And I plan to stay that way until after Christmas, too."

"And you aren't going to tell me what's bugging you, are you?" he asks.

"Nope," I reply tersely.

"You're a monster, Mr. Grinch," he sings. "Your heart's an empty hole…"

I grip the steering wheel and grit my teeth. "If you don't stop singing, I'm going to rip your tie off and stuff it down your throat. Got it?"

"I'm just trying to cheer you up, Pete," he says, sounding slightly wounded.

"And strangely enough, it's not working," I tell him. "I thought you were hungry, anyway."

"Yeah, I still am," he says. "Think dispatch will let us take seven now?"

"Try it and see," I tell him.

"Are we still eating at the Whataburger?" he asks.

"Yeah, I guess."

"Well, if you don't wanna go there, we can eat somewhere else. I mean, you pick…"

I interrupt him. "Whataburger's fine," I tell him, irritation creeping into my voice once more.

He studies me for a moment, then he picks up the mike. "Dispatch, this is One-Adam-12, requesting code seven at Whataburger, 3000 Wilshire Boulevard."

 _"One-Adam-12, please stand by,"_ the dispatcher asks. She comes back on in a moment.  _"One-Adam-12, okay seven."_

"One-Adam-12, thank you," Reed says, replacing the mike into the holder with a thunk. "I'm dreaming of a white Christmas…just like the ones I used to know…" he begins.

"REED!" I yelp. "Will you SHUT UP?"

"Oh…alright," he snaps, annoyed. "I can't hear myself sing over the sound of my stomach growling anyway."

"Trust me, you're not missing much," I reply. "Besides, you've lived in Los Angeles all your life, so what would you know about white Christmases?"

He gives me a frown. "You know, Pete, I hate to admit this, but you're really starting to get on my nerves, what with all this sullen sourness and crabby mood of yours. I don't know what the hell your problem is, but quit taking it out on me, okay? Because if push comes to shove, I'll shove right back, got it?"

"I thought you said my bad mood wasn't going to spoil your good one," I retort.

"Yeah, well, it's beginning to," he says. "Or maybe I'm just cranky because I'm starving." Then he falls silent the rest of the way over to Whataburger.

* * *

"Go ahead and order for me," I tell him when we get inside the restaurant. "I'm gonna go wash my hands after the Tammy disaster."

"Whaddaya want?" he asks.

"Fries and a hamburger," I say. "And coffee." I hand him the money for my meal.

"You don't want anything other than that?" he asks, slightly surprised. "Usually you eat more than a hamburger and fries, Pete. Are you sick or something?"

"I'm not sick," I say. "I'm just not that hungry. And I'm not spending our forty-five minutes for supper break discussing WHY I'm not hungry, either." I turn on my heel and go into the bathroom. Flipping on the hot water tap in the sink, I pump soap from the wall dispenser into my palm, scrubbing the film of scum that I feel on my hands from being inside of Tammy's filthy house. Even though the water is as hot as I can stand it, I feel the need to repeat my actions, just to make sure I get all the crud off. Grabbing a handful of paper towels, I dry my hands, catching sight of myself in the mirror. Noticing my tie is slightly askew, I straighten it. Taking the damp paper towels, I scrub at my badge where Tammy spit on me, making a mental note to thoroughly clean and disinfect it when I get back to the station. I check the torn lining of my coat, making sure the safety pin is still in place, then tossing the paper towels in the waste basket, I give myself one last once-over to make sure I'll pass muster until the end of watch. I meet my eyes in the mirror, eyes that have a bitter glint to them. Unbidden, a thought comes to me, a thought that's been hiding in the back of my mind all day.  _Why, of all Christmases, did she have to…?_  I shake my head, shoving the thought away once more, and quickly leave the bathroom.

Reed is waiting in a booth near one of the windows, our food on the table before him. "I hope you didn't mind me going ahead and starting to eat," he says, slightly apologetic. "I got you what you ordered." He slides my change across the table to me. "There's your change."

"Thanks,"I say, pocketing it. I slide into the booth across from him. "Good Christ, what'd you do, order the entire restaurant?" I ask, eyeing the mound of food in front of my starved partner. He's ordered two hamburgers, a large fry, a Ceasar salad, coleslaw, and a cherry fruit pie for dessert. A large cup of pop completes the meal.

"No," he says around a mouthful of french fries. "I told you I was starved."

"Sure hope you can finish that all before our break is done," I say, unwrapping my hamburger. I begin to take a bite when a cheery female voice stops me.

"Oh, Mr. Malloy, imagine running into you here!" a tall brunette in a pair of hip-huggers and a pink turtleneck sweater says, approaching our table. "I'm Becky, your waitress from the other night at Las Palomas. Do you remember me?" she chirps happily.

"Um…yeah, I do," I say, avoiding Reed's curious eyes as I go ahead and take a bite of hamburger. I feel myself redden slightly with embarassment.

"I didn't know you were a police officer," she says. "Imagine that!"

"Yeah, imagine that," I mumble, swallowing. "Do you work here, too, Becky?"

"Oh no, a friend and I just stopped in here for a quick bite before we head home," she says. "Busy day of last-minute Christmas shopping, you know!"

"Soo…" Reed says, munching on a bit of lettuce from his large salad. "You say you were Pete's waitress the other night at Las Palomas?" he asks, just brimming with avid curiosity. "Do tell," he says, ignoring the daggerous look I shoot at him.

"Oh yes," she says cheerily. "I felt so bad for the poor man, just sitting there all alone, waiting for his date to show up. She never did, did she?" she asks, patting my shoulder in sympathy.

"She didn't?" Reed's eyebrows quirk up in surprise and he grins, obvious thoughts of torturing me with this little snippet of information in the imminent future. "How utterly sad." He puts on a fake sad face.

"I KNOW!" Becky chirps, her dark eyes wide with shock. "Can you imagine? Someone standing up a nice man like Mr. Malloy, just like that! I certainly hope that girl apologized to you, Mr. Malloy."

"Uh…yeah, she did," I say. "And she actually had a family emergency, that's why she never showed up." I take a sip of coffee, my brain frantically searching for an excuse as to why Angie never showed up. "She…uh…her…um…aunt got sick and she had to go to the hospital and be with her," I stammer. "Yeah, that was it."

"Oh, that's too bad," Becky says, patting me once more. "I hope she makes it up to you, Mr. Malloy." She gives Reed and I a great big grin. "Well, I've gotta run. It was nice seeing you, Mr. Malloy! You and your partner have a merry Christmas!"

"Yeah, you too," Reed says, eyeing her as she leaves. He turns to me, eyes sparkling with amusement. "Soo…Angie stood you up, huh?" he asks gleefully. "I can't believe it, the great Pete Malloy got stood up!"

"I'm NOT talking about it," I tell him tightly. I cram a few french fries in my mouth, keeping my eyes on my food in front of me.

"I'll bet that's never happened to you, has it, Pete?" Reed chortles in delight.

"It has too," I hiss. "And keep your damned voice down!"

"What's happened, and why is Reed supposed to keep his voice down?" asks a voice over my shoulder.

I wince.  _Oh crap, Ed Wells and Bob Brinkman._ "Nothing's happened," I tell Ed sharply. "How'd you guys manage to get cleared for seven?" I ask. "I thought you were still at Sybil Brand with the fabulous Tammy."

"Nope," Ed says, sliding into the booth next to me, as Brinkman slides in next to Jim, the tray of food he and Ed have ordered in his hands. He begins to unload it as Ed continues. "We got the fabulous Tammy booked into Sybil Brand in no time at all. She put up a helluva fight, of course, when they went to stick her in a cell, but those matrons knew how to handle her from her previous visits. They're all old pros at dealing with Tammy."

"Yeah," Brinkman says, stuffing french fries into his mouth. "While we were waiting on the paperwork from Mac, Liz Grant called from Rampart Hospital. She said there was evidence that little Raylene had been raped. Coupled with the physical abuse they found on all three of those kids, Tammy's charges got upgraded big time. The detectives are working on getting names of possible suspects in the rape and abuse, since Tammy didn't do it all on her own."

"Oh," I say, my appetite suddenly gone. I shove my food away with distaste, the french fries and hamburger suddenly sitting rather heavily in my stomach. I notice that Reed does the same thing.

"Yeah, with any luck, they'll catch the rat bastards who did that to those poor kids," Ed says, sucking on his milkshake. "Hey," he says. "This is an excellent peppermint milkshake." He jabs at me with an elbow. "So now what's happened that Reed was supposed to keep his voice down over?" he asks, eyeing me slyly.

"Nothing," I tell him. I shoot Reed a warning look, but he ignores me.

"Pete got stood up on his date with Angie the other night," he tells them conspiratorially.

"Oh-HO!" Ed crows delightedly. "The legendary Strawberry Fox struck out! That's a first!"

"Isn't Angie the one whose Halloween party we crashed?" Brinkman asks. "She pushed Ed into the pool, didn't she?"

"Yeah, she did," Reed supplies. "She's also the one who got the turkey out of Macy's."

"So why'd she stand you up?" Brinkman asks.

"I'd rather not talk about it," I tell him sharply. "With ANY of you."

"Well," Reed chuckles. "According to Pete, her aunt got sick and she had to go sit with her at the hospital. But somehow, I don't think that was the REAL reason she stood him up."

"Maybe she got rabies," Ed says.

"Maybe she had to stay home and wash her hair that night," Brinkman says.

"No, I've got it. She's really an undercover spy for the CIA, and she had to go on a secret mission that night," Reed says.

"Or maybe there was a really good movie on tv that she didn't want to miss," Ed adds.

"Or maybe her goldfish died and she had to attend its funeral," Brinkman says.

"Or maybe she…" Reed begins gleefully.

"Or maybe you should all just shut the hell up!" I snap, interrupting Reed.

"You know, that's getting to be Pete's favorite saying tonight," Reed says. "I don't know how many times he's told me to shut the hell up since our shift began. The term 'drop it' is running a close second, followed by 'I'm not discussing it' in third."

"That's because you keep trying to cheer me up by singing!" I growl.

"Which obviously isn't working," Brinkman observes.

"He's being a grinch," Ed says. "But the question is why?"

"That's what I'm trying to figure out," Reed says. "I can't get him to talk to me at all." He puts the back of his hand to his forehead, throwing his head back in mock-anguish. "Oh, Doctors Wells and Brinkman, whatever shall I do?" he wails. "My partner won't communicate with me! I know that something is obviously bugging him, but I can't get him to tell me what it is! Is this relationship worth saving, or should I bid him fond adieu?"

"I'd say ditch him," Ed says, snorting with laughter.

"Yeah, trade him in on a partner who'll let you drive the squad car once in awhile," Brinkman jokes.

Seething, I keep my head down, sipping at my coffee. Anger flushes in my face and I grit my teeth. I glance at my watch and see that we still have about ten minutes left on our supper break.

"Aww, whatsamatter, Petey old boy?" Ed asks, draping an arm over my shoulder. "You afraid you're gonna get a lump of coal in your stocking? Is your Christmas not holly and jolly, ring-jing-jingley, and all that jazz?"

"Yeah, Pete, have you been more naughty than nice this year?" Brinkman jibes. "'Cuz Santa knows, he's making a list and checking it twice."

"No, he's mad because he never got what he wanted for Christmas as a kid," Reed tells him.

"What's that?" Ed asks. "A brain?"

"No, a heart," Brinkman says.

"No, wait, lemme guess," Ed says. "A decent personality."

"Hey Ed, watch it," Reed says. "You're wandering into your own lacking territory." He shakes his head. "No, what our good friend Pete here wanted for Christmas as a kid was a BB gun. But all he got was a lousy sack of marbles."

"You'd shoot your eye out, Pete," Brinkman says.

"With a sack of marbles? Are you kidding me?" Ed says, looking at Brinkman. "How in the hell can a sack of marbles shoot your eye out? I mean, you could POKE yourself in the eye with ONE marble, I guess, if you're especially klutzy. Or maybe you could sling the sack around by the string and clobber yourself in the head with all of 'em, I guess. But I think they'd be more likely to end up stuffed up a nostril or two, or swallowed."

Brinkman and Reed stare at Ed. "You know, Ed, sometimes you are THE dumbest shit in the world, " Brinkman tells him. "He'd put his eye out with the BB gun, not a marble, you blathering idiot."

I've finally had enough. If I don't get out of here, and fast, I'm gonna end up belting Ed across the jaw with a fist, strangling Brinkman with his tie, and whacking Reed up alongside the head with my nightstick. "That does it," I snarl, swiping at my mouth with my napkin. I begin to grab up the remnants of my supper to throw in the trash.

The three of them look at me in surprise. "What is it?" Reed asks. "Why ya leavin'?"

"I've had enough of your guys' crap, that's all," I snap. I shove my shoulder hard against Ed. "Move your ass, Ed, before I move it for you."

"I don't get it," Reed says, frowning. "We were just joking, Pete, that's all."

"Yeah, usually you don't seem to mind," Brinkman says.

"Especially if I'M the butt of your jokes," Ed says, still immobile.

I jab him sharply with my elbow. "Get out of the way, damn it!" I growl at him, and he slides out, releasing me from my booth captivity. Slapping my watchcap onto my head, I throw my dinner garbage into a nearby trash can. "I'm going out to the car," I tell Reed. "Stay in here and enjoy the rest of our dinner break if you want, I really don't give a damn." Then I turn and start to stalk out of the restaurant.

"Hey, wait a sec, Pete," Reed calls. He fumbles quickly to gather up his own trash, Brinkman sliding out of the booth to let Jim follow me. "Pete, wait!" he calls to me again, tossing his trash and hurrying to catch up.

I cast a last glance over my shoulder before I open the door to escape, seeing the rather stunned and confused looks on the faces of Bob Brinkman and Ed Wells, and the worried face of Jim Reed. I shove the door open, hard, the bells on the top of the door jangling violently, the warmth of the restaurant replaced by the icy night air, which makes me shiver, my breath coming out in a cloud. It's started to rain while we were inside, a cold, sleety rain that beats heavily through the air. The temperature feels like it's dropped another twenty degrees. I shove my hands into my jacket pockets and head to the car, ignoring Jim Reed following in my angry wake. I get in on the driver's side and slam the door, then I open it and slam it again, viciously, the squad car rocking with the force of the slam. It does little to dispel my anger, but it feels a little bit good, just the same.

Reed climbs in on the passenger side. "Hey, man, talk to me," he says, obvious concern in his voice. "Something's really bugging you, and you need to tell me what it is." He turns and faces me in the seat, brows furrowed together in a worried frown.

I start the squad car up, ignoring Reed, twisting the key in the ignition so violently that I'm surprised it doesn't break off. The windows have fogged over a bit on the inside, so I reach over and flick the heater button on with a sharp jab of my finger, sliding the the temperature and vent knobs over to the far side of the console with a vicious click. The heat blasts on, roaring through the vents in the dashboard. I turn on the windshield wipers, the blades squee-squawking across the glass.

"Pete…" he begins.

"I don't need to tell you anything, Reed, you're not my mom OR my priest," I tell him, my voice a low growl.

"No, but I'm you're friend, Pete, and if something's bothering you, tell me, and maybe I can help," he says.

"I don't need any help," I tell him angrily. "I just want to get through the rest of this shift without having you sing at me, try to cheer me up, or otherwise make your presence known in the squad car until we get off watch. I don't want to hear anymore about Christmas at all. I just want you to sit there and shut up, unless you're spoken to. Got it?" I close my fingers around the gearshift knob.

Seeing that I'm about to put the squad into gear, he grabs the steering wheel with a hand, stopping me. "No," he says. "I  _don't_  got it, Pete. You need to talk to me, and you need to talk to me NOW."

"Let go of the damned steering wheel, Reed," I tell him through gritted teeth. "Before I rip your fingers off."

"I'm not letting you drive this squad car as pissed off as you are right now," he warns me, his voice rising sharply. "If you wanna be angry, fine, but not while you're driving, Pete. I won't let you."

"Whaddaya gonna do to stop me, call on God for some divine intervention?" I ask, taunting him.

"No, I'll call Mac and have him meet me on Tac2," he tells me. "Then I'll inform him of what's going on with you, and he'll likely take you off of duty for the rest of the night."

I stare at him, stunned. "You'd actually do that to me?" I ask.

"Try me," he replies. When I don't speak, he continues. "Now tell me what's wrong, Pete. It's more than the deal with Angie the other night, isn't it?"

I turn my gaze to the window, avoiding his eyes. "You know, if this rain keeps up and the temperature keeps falling, it WILL snow. So maybe you'll get your white Christmas after all."

"Pete, you're not answering my question," he chides.

I stare at the cars going by in the street outside the restaurant parking lot, their headlights and taillights watery blobs against the rain, and I heave a weary sigh. "Yes," I say. "It's more than the deal with Angie the other night." I hesitate, rubbing my forehead. Then I continue. "I had a call from my mom last night…"

 _"One-Adam-12, One-Adam-12, are you clear from code seven?"_  the dispatcher asks.

"Sonofabitch," Reed hisses, grabbing up the mike. "One-Adam-12, roger, we're cleared from seven."

_"One-Adam-12, copy a welfare check, 1225 White Angel Drive. Handle code two."_

"One-Adam-12, copy," Reed replies. He looks at me with concern. "Pete, I'm sorry, will you tell me later?"

"Yeah," I say. "I guess." But as I pull the car out of the parking lot, I know that I have absolutely no intention of doing that at all.


	5. Blue Christmas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **ALL ORIGINAL CONTENT OF THIS STORY IS THE SOLE PROPERTY OF BAMBOOZLEPIG AND MAY NOT BE USED WITHOUT PERMISSION.** In order to enhance the overall plot experience, creative liberties may have been intentionally taken with the real-life protocols depicted herein.

_BLUE CHRISTMAS_

… _Peter, do you remember the Christmas when you found out about Evie cheating on you with Joey Donnelly? I was so upset with that girl for hurting you so badly, I could've slapped her and yanked her hair out by the roots. I never told you this, but I always had a sneaking suspicion that she was messing around with Joey. I'd come by your house after noon Mass and see his car in the driveway sometimes. I never stopped in to see what was going on, because I didn't want to pry, but now I wish I had. Maybe it would've saved you a lot of heartbreak in the end. She dropped away from the church, you know, and so did Donnelly after they had their quickie wedding, but I see her every once in awhile at the store. I've seen the boy of Donnelly's that she was pregnant with when you left her, and he doesn't look anything like Joey at all. In fact, he kind of reminds me of you when you were younger, Peter. Do you suppose…_

… _Mom, I don't even want to discuss that Christmas at all. I remember it very well, because I had my heart broken by the girl I I loved, and whom I thought loved me back. I had such big dreams for the two of us, and I truly thought we were happy together, that we'd spend the rest of our lives with each other. But dreams like that die hard and fast in the face of harsh reality, and I'm glad that I found the truth out before I got hurt any worse by her. And I don't even want to suppose anything, Mom. I don't want to talk about it at all, so please, just drop it…_

* * *

The place that we're going to do the welfare check at is a flop rooming house on White Angel Drive euphemistically called The Stratford Arms. The weatherbeaten sign out in the front is missing several letters, and someone has blacked the 'o' in 'Stratford' into an 'e', so the sign reads: The Strafed Arm, which is actually more fitting, given the clientele most likely to rent a room there. It's a fire-hazardous, flea-bitten dump, consisting of 50 of the finest furnished rooms anyone with ten bucks a week for rent can afford. It was formerly a hotel, built in the early 1900's, to house people flocking to Los Angeles in search of sunshine, good times, and money in any of the various opportunities California provided. But after the war, it was turned into a rooming house to ease the housing crunch created by the returning GI's, and it went downhill from there ever since. It comes complete with hot and cold running cockroaches, rats large enough to be housepets, and a stench that has inhabited the building since 1945. I'm sure it used to be a nice place to stay in a long time ago, when it was actually a hotel, but now it looks like a good strong fart would knock it down into a pile of dusty rubble and fleeing vermin. It's a place we get called to quite often, given the rather sketchy and dubious quality of the building's inhabitants and their tendency to imbibe in a variety of chemical mixtures, mainly booze and dope. The resident manager knows most of us in Central Division by name, having had to call many of us out here on several occasions in the past.

The façade of the building is still shabbily noble, a pair of ferocious cement lions flanking the entrance and gruesome gargoyles guarding the corners of the building. Beautiful brass coach lamps light the way into the Stratford Arms. Ornate scrollwork dances around the rooftop, and there's nothing wrong with the exterior bricks that a good sandblasting wouldn't cure. But, on closer inspection, you can see that the lions are cracked and chipped from the march of time, and someone has painted one of the lions flourescent pink, while the other lion sports several scribblings of a curse word better left unuttered. The bums and winos that usually litter the front stoop have been chased into warmer quarters by the freezing rain and chilly temperatures. But even in this kind of weather, the front door is propped open with a brick, and the unique rank smell of urine, rotten garbage, old food, rancid grease, and stale cigarette smoke oozes out into the sidewalk as we climb the steps. Commingled underneath the stench is the smell of years of mustiness and mildew, along with the ripely fermented smell of old booze.

The once-magnificent and opulent lobby is dank and dim, the elaborate crown molding and wooden-inlay door frames painted a deep shade of olive green. The scuffed and dingy black-and-white granite tiles are chipped and cracked so badly that it looks like the lobby is paved with gravel in some places. Bile green paint is peeling off of the walls, and only a handful of the light fixtures in the entryway work. A few beat-up brown armchairs litter the lobby, and a few bums litter the armchairs. They look up with little interest as we enter, then they go back to staring at the delicately-veined floor, the unspoken rule of thumb being: as long as we're not there to roust them, they could care less what our business in the building is.

George Phipps, the resident manager of the Stratford Arms, is seated behind what used to be the check-out counter when the dive was still a hotel. The heavy dark wood of the counter has seen better days, the surface scarred and pockmarked with deep scratches. Behind George is the pigeon-hole mailboxes for each of the fifty rooms, and some of them are crammed with mail, while others are mournfully empty. "Hey, Malloy, Reed," he says genially as he spots us, coughing into a handkerchief. George has been the resident manager of the Stratford for the last twenty years, having gotten the job after he retired from his job as a switchman at the railyards. He's a stooped-over little fellow now, with thinning hair, glasses, and a bad case of emphysema, but back in the day, he used to be a boxer in a minor-league bantam division. He's got quite a scrapbook of newspaper clippings detailing the fights he'd won, and to hear him tell, he was on the way to being the next Rocky Marciano of the lightweight circuit, if the war and subsequent service hadn't of interfered.

"Hey George," Reed says, leaning on the wooden counter. He sets the report book on top. "What's up? We got a call here to do a welfare check."

"Yeah," he rasps, standing up and pushing his chair back, the wheels squeaking violently in protest. "Girl up in 225. Haven't seen her or her baby in a couple of days, and she hasn't paid her rent for this week."

"Maybe she skipped out without you knowing it," I tell him. "It's not like that's never happened in this dump."

"Hey, watch it, Malloy," he says. "This 'dump' has been my home for the last twenty or so years." He shakes his head. "I woulda thought she skipped town, too, only she didn't take the thing she gave me to keep in the safe." He gestures to the large safe that is tucked under the check-out desk, the Fort Knox-like lock virtually impenetrable and the combination memorized in only George's head. Many of George's sticky-fingered tenants have tried to bust into the safe in order to steal, with little luck. If he dies, the tenants who have items stored in the safe are going to be screwed, unless they can round up some dynamite and blasting caps.

"What's her name?" Reed asks, pulling out his notebook.

"Mary," he says. "Mary Doe. Obviously not her real name." He coughs again into the hanky. "I was hesitant about rentin' to her, she's a really young thing and she had a tiny baby to boot, but she had the money to pay the weekly ten-dollar rent, so who am I to turn her away? Money is money, after all."

"When did she check in?" Reed asks.

"About a month ago," he says. "When she first moved in, she had some long-haired shaggy kid stayin' with her and the baby, I figgered he was her boyfriend or husband or somethin'. But he up and left about two weeks ago. He gave me enough money to cover her rent until yesterday. Even though the rent was due yesterday, I decided to be nice and give her an extra day, bein' that it's a holiday and all."

"You're all heart, George," I tell him dryly.

"Did she get any mail here, have any visitors, anything like that?" Reed asks.

"She got mail, yeah," George tells us. "She got a letter on Wednesday, but nothing before then or after that day. No visitors that I knew of, other than the shaggy-haired kid she was stayin' with. She was pretty quiet, stayed mostly to herself. Kept the baby quiet, too, which was surprising. Most babies cry and fuss, but hers didn't. I hardly ever heard a peep from him coming from her room."

"Did she have a job, anything like that that you know about?" I ask.

"Nope, not that I'm aware of," he says. "She never came and went like she was keepin' regular hours at a job. And I'm fairly sure she wasn't hookin' either. She looked too clean and wholesome to do that kind of crap, not to mention innocent. She's a little meek mild thing, and I can't imagine someone like her plyin' the trade. I never saw her bringing johns up here, and if she HAD, she'd of gotten kicked out. I don't run that sort of joint, and you boys know it."

"What about the boyfriend?" Reed asks. "You know anything about him?"

George frowns, deep in thought. "He didn't have a steady job that I know of. He fancied himself to be some sort of musician, I think. He always had a guitar with him, and he called himself some stupid name like Teddy Rick or Teddy Rock…Teddy Rockit, that's it," he says, snapping his fingers. "But like I said, he lit out of here two weeks ago and ain't been back since. Left her and the kid behind."

"What did she give you to keep in the safe for her?" I ask.

"How the hell should I know?" George asks. "Ain't none of my damn business WHAT my tenants want me to put away for safekeeping, as long as it ain't dope or stolen goods. It's in an evelope, whatever it is."

"Anything else you can tell us about her?" Reed asks. "Did she have a car, anything like that?"

"No, no car," he says. "She usually took a bus or walked wherever she needed to go." Then he thinks for a moment. "You know, I don't think she was real familiar with the neighborhood," he says. "She had to ask me where she could get some groceries at. I told her to go to the Safeway on the corner. When she checked in, she only had one suitcase and a diaper bag with her, nothing else. The shaggy-haired kid just had a duffle bag and his guitar, and he had those when he lit out two weeks ago." He unlocks a drawer in the check-out counter and reaches into it, pulling out a key on a silver ring. The tag attached to the key ring has the number 225 on it. "There's the key to her room," he says, handing it to me. "If you find her hiding out from me in there, tell her that her rent's due today by ten p.m. No later than that."

"How come you haven't gone up and tried to make contact with her?" I ask.

"I have," he says. "I know she's gotta be in there, 'cuz I hear a radio playin' and can see a light on under the door. But no one answers my knock."

"You didn't use the key to make entry?" I ask. "You could have, you know."

He stares at me. "Are you KIDDING me, Malloy? Last time I did that to a tenant I thought had skipped out, the old bat proved she was still there in the room by planting a cast-iron frying pan up alongside my head." He shakes his head. "No sirree Bob. I ain't goin' in a tenant's room unless I'm SURE they're already moved out. I learned my lesson from that deal." He shrugs. "Besides, knowing the type of tenants I get in here, one of them's liable to scream theft, and accuse me of stealin' from 'em."

"Okay, George, we'll check it out for you," Reed says, tucking his notebook away. "Room 225?"

"On the right side of the hall, about halfway down," George says. "You can't miss it, it's got a big chunk missing out of the doorframe from where some crazy dame's boyfriend kicked the door in after they'd had a fight."

"Thanks," Reed tells George, and the two of us start towards the dimly lit stairs.

"I feel like I'm in the Bates Motel," Reed tells me as we make our way up to the second floor. He touches the bannister with his hand, then pulls it quickly away, making a face. "I just touched something slimy," he mutters, shuddering. "Ugh."

"Nah, the Bates was much cleaner than this dive is," I tell him, as something crunches under my foot. I don't even want to know what it is, so I wipe my foot on the edge of the next step, hoping to scrape any residue left by the unknown crunchy thing off onto the thinly carpeted stairs. "Tony Perkins even made sure to stab Janet Leigh in the shower so that the blood would wash down the drain."

"You know, ya gotta wonder how many people switched over to taking baths after that shower scene, for at least awhile," he asks. "Did that movie bother you?"

"Nope," I tell him. "Not at all."

"Figures," he says sarcastically. "Sometimes I don't think anything bothers you, Pete."

"Things do," I say. "Believe me."

"Yeah, and you always keep them to yourself," he says.

"It's my nature," I tell him. "I'm not one to blab about my problems to everyone."

A drunk is sitting slumped in a chair on the landing of the second floor. An empty bottle of muscatel lies on the ground near the drunk's feet, and he snores loudly, the smell of stale booze, sweat, and urine emanating from him like a miasma. He's an apt representative of the clientele of the Stratford Arms, and I wouldn't swear that we haven't arrested him before in the past for previous offenses.

We walk down the dimly-lit hallway, the faded and thin carpet beneath our feet a pattern of cabbage roses and various stains, of origins I don't wish to consider. Behind the doors of the other nearby rooms we can hear the sounds of tv and the occasional loud conversation. Cooking smells waft out into the hallway; rice, potatoes, and the strong smell of sauerkraut. They combine with the rank smell of the building to create a slightly nauseating odor. We come to room 225, distinguished by the chunk of wood taken out of the doorframe.

Reed knocks on the door. "Police officers, Miss Doe. Open the door," he calls. He waits a few seconds, then he knocks again. "Miss Doe, we're police officers. We need to talk to you." There is still no response from within, but we can hear a radio playing softly behind the door. He looks at me. "Might as well make entry," he says, shrugging.

I slip the key into the lock and it turns easily, the door squeaking open with a twist of the chipped glass knob. With Reed right behind me, I step into the room, hesitating a moment to let my eyes adjust to the even dimmer light within. Instantly the hairs on the back of my neck raise up in alarm and I get the eerie feeling that something is lurking amongst the deep shadows in the room. The room is chilly inside, smelling musty and stale, and the interior of the room is lit only with a small lamp on an end table. Heavy draperies cover the two windows, muting the sounds from outside, and the room is sparsely furnished. Two battered chairs, with the beat-up end table that the lamp is sitting on between them, are along one wall of the room, a long, thin coffee table sitting lopsidedly in front of them. A few magazines and newspapers are atop the coffee table, along with a glass ashtray full of cigarette butts, and a battered teddy bear with a red bow around its neck. A small black and white television set sits atop a chipped and scarred dresser with a cracked mirror along the opposite wall. Beneath our feet, a threadbare Oriental rug tries to hide the scarfed-up wooden flooring. There isn't much of a kitchen, just a two-burner hot plate sitting on a small countertop, a small refrigerator just big enough for maybe a gallon of milk, a carton of eggs, and a loaf of bread next to the countertop. A tiny sink is tucked into a cabinet, and another cabinet hangs from the wall, the battered cupboard door on it sitting at an angle away from its hinges, evidently having been slammed shut one too many times. Along the farthest wall of the room is a twin bed with a sagging mattress and a chipped wrought-iron frame painted white. A nightstand is next to the bed, another small lamp on top of it, along with a clock radio, the dial glowing amber, the radio tuned to a station playing continuous Christmas carols. This is the source of the music we heard playing. But it is on the bed that we find her, the subject of our welfare check, Mary Doe.

"Oh Jesus," Reed whispers as we spot her. "Is she dead?"

"I dunno," I tell him, crossing the wooden floor to check, the wood creaking under my tread. He stays where he's at, watching me. As I get close to her, I know that it will do me no good to check her for a pulse, since it's evident to my eyes that her life stopped being life hours ago. But I still lean forward and gently press my fingers to her neck, her skin cool under my fingertips. No pulse beats beneath her white skin. "She's dead," I tell Reed tonelessly, straightening up. "See if there's a light switch in here for an overhead light or something," I tell him.

"Yeah, there's one near the door here," he says. "I'll turn it on."

"Use your pen to turn it on," I warn. "Not your fingers."

"I know it," he says a bit irritably. I hear the click of plastic on plastic, and then the room is bathed in light that is not much brighter than the lamplight is, revealing before us the whole unearthly, ungodly scene. The eerie feeling I have lessens somewhat in the glow of the light, but not by much.

She is quite beautiful, even in death, her body glowing ethereally in the dim light of the room. Her skin is pale, nearly translucent, her long golden hair fanned carefully out behind her head on the pillow. Her clouded blue eyes stare sightlessly at the waterstained ceiling overhead, her mouth hangs slightly open as if she cried out once before she died. She is dressed in a demure white satin nightgown, with long lacy sleeves and a high necked collar with tiny pink roses embroidered around the edge. The long skirt of the nightgown is spread out over the bed, the lacy hem grazing her ankles. Her hands are neatly folded and clasped upon her chest, and she looks for all the world like Sleeping Beauty awaiting the kiss of her prince to bring her out of her deep slumber. But there is no prince here in this dank little room, only two uniformed LAPD officers, and we're far from being princes.

I spot an empty pill bottle on the nightstand, along with an empty water glass. Handkerchief over my fingers, I carefully pick up the empty pill bottle, examining the label. It was filled on the 22nd of this month, Thursday, and it was for 100 Seconal. "Suicide," I tell Reed, my voice flat. "She OD'd on Seconal."

"What's the name on the bottle?" Reed asks.

"Mary Kearney," I tell him, setting the bottle back down on the nightstand.

"George said she had a baby," Reed says, eyes scanning the room. "So where is it?"

"Check the closet," I say, pointing to a small closet next to the bed. "I'll check in the bathroom." Outside of those two rooms, there isn't anywhere else a baby could be hidden away.

Reed tugs open the closet door. "Nothing in here but a few clothes, a suitcase, and a diaper bag. No baby."

I duck my head inside the tiny bathroom, really nothing more than a sink, a toilet, and a shower stall crammed into pink and white ceramic tiles that are chipped and cracked. Some are even missing. "No baby in here, either," I say, ducking back out.

Reed looks at me with sudden wide-eyed horror as a thought crosses our minds at the same time. "You don't suppose she killed it and put it under the bed, do you?"

"I dunno, maybe," I tell him. "Check and see."

"No, YOU check and see," he says nervously.

"Oh, for God's sake," I mutter, getting down on my hands and knees and peering under the bed. "There's nothing under here except dust bunnies," I tell him, standing back up and brushing myself off.

"So where is it?" he asks, a note of panic in his voice.

"Look, we don't know if it was even her kid," I tell him. "She might've been babysitting it for someone for awhile, and she's already turned it back over to them. Let's see if we can find some ID on her and we'll go from there," I say, spotting a small black leather purse on the bureau. I go over to it and pick it up, the metal clasp clicking against my fingers as I open it. I riffle through the meager contents; a tube of cheap lipstick in a vivid crimson shade, a lacy hanky, a roll of peppermints, a compact, and a denim wallet. I pull the wallet out, flipping it open. I find a California driver's license with the name of Mary Kearney. There's a library card with the same name, along with a student ID from a high school in Hollywood Hills. The picture on the school ID matches the dead girl on the bed. I flip through the photographs tucked into the plastic picture inserts in the wallet. There's a senior picture of a handsome boy with dark brown hair and a slightly crooked smile. There's another picture of the same boy in a blue tuxedo, his arm draped around a girl with long golden hair, wearing a long blue flower-print dress, both of them smiling widely for the camera. "Senior Prom, 1968," reads the gold caption across the bottom of the photo. I find another picture, this one of her family, evidently. It's a posed studio shot, her father stern and unsmiling, his dark hair slightly balding, while her mother sits primly on a stool, hands clasped in her lap, her golden hair like her daughter's pulled back into a tight bun. Mary is standing on one side of her father, wearing a flowered peasant dress, and her younger sister stands next to her mother, her long blonde hair held back with pink plastic barrettes that match her pink plaid jumper and pink turtleneck. Only the two daughters smile for the camera, and even I can tell they're faked for the photographer. That's all for the pictures, so I open the section of the wallet where dollar bills would go. It's completely empty. "Her name's Mary Kearney," I tell him. "Same as the one on the pill bottle." I glance at the birthdate on the driver's license. "She was only eighteen," I say. "Born on Christmas Day."

"My mom always said that babies born on Christmas Day were special," Reed says softly. "That they were miracle babies, sent from Heaven."

"She's not a miracle baby now," I tell him dully.

"How long do you think she's been dead?" he asks.

"Dunno. Three, four hours maybe," I say. "Could be longer than that, I can't tell just by looking at her. But it doesn't appear that rigor has really set in yet, so probably not much more than six hours, tops."

He stares at the body of the girl for a moment, then he speaks again his voice thick and hollow-sounding. "I'll go down and call for an ambulance and Sergeant MacDonald," he says.

"You'll need to notify the detectives, too, see if they wanna come out," I tell him. I hand him the driver's license. "Run it, see what kind of information comes back on it," I say.

He nods wordlessly, taking the driver's license from me, then he turns away and leaves me alone in that silent room with the dead girl on the bed.

I notice three letters on the bureau and I pick them up. One letter is addressed to Mary Kearney, with the Stratford Arms address on it. The return address is out in Hollywood Hills, and the postmark is dated Tuesday, December 20th. The other envelope simply says "Mary" on the outside of it. The third letter says "To whom it may concern" on it. The letters are opened, and I study the envelopes for a moment, tapping them against my fingers, debating whether or not to read them. It's really none of my business what's in those letters; for all I know, they could be love letters or letters from a distant friend or relative. But I somehow have the feeling that within the contents of these missives lie the answer to the mystery of who this girl is and how she came to commit suicide in a flop rooming house. Curiosity wins out and I open the flap of the first envelope, gently sliding the letter out, unfolding the thin sheet of paper. I begin to read.

 _Dear Mary,_ it begins in an elegant script.  _So you think you can just come home to Mother and I, now that your so-called "boyfriend" has abandoned you and your child. You think we'll take you back with open arms and welcome you home, just like nothing ever happened, but think again, Mary. It doesn't work that way. Life is cold and harsh, and often unfair and unjust, and the sooner you learn that reality, the better off you'll be. You gave up a promising college career just to follow that stupid rock-singer wannabe, Teddy Rokowski, around, the two of you thinking he was going to be a big star. And he isn't yet, is he? And now you find yourself in dire straits, with no job, no husband, and no money. Well, it isn't our fault. You were the one who ran off and got pregnant by that deadbeat. We didn't help you out when the baby was born back in October, so why should we help you out now? You made your bed, Mary, now lie in it. And I would appreciate it if you wouldn't try to contact your mother and I in any way in the future. We have no desire to maintain connections with an ungrateful and thankless daughter like yourself. You have broken both of our hearts, and that is a transgression neither of us can forgive. We have your younger sister to worry about, and we don't want her exposed to your sinful and wasteful lifestyle. You must now make your way in life however you can, Mary, since your welfare and wellbeing is no longer any concern of ours._ It's signed,  _Father_ , with no "love" or anything else as the closing. "That's pretty cold and harsh," I mutter, the contents of the letter stinging me. "To just turn your back on your daughter like that." Sighing, shaking my head, I slide the letter back into the envelope and pull the next one out.

 _Mary,_ it starts, in a bold decisive hand.  _I've decided I don't want to get married after all. I know we said we wanted to, that it's all we've dreamed about since 10_ _th_ _grade, but I think that a wife and a baby would just tie me down right now. I've gotta be free, Mary, surely you understand that. You can't keep a singer like me caged up. Since I can't make it here in Los Angeles, I'm headed to New York to see if I can get any singing jobs there. I've got a buddy who'll help me get some gigs that will hopefully lead to a recording contract. I love you and our son, Mary, but I love my music more. I know we had our dreams of being together forever, but this dream of mine is more important right now. If I don't try and make it as a singer now, I'll never try it, and both of us know it. I can't give up that chance, Mary, and I'm sorry for hurting you like this. I hope you'll understand that and forgive me. Keep the ring, pawn it if you have to. If I get some money coming in, I'll try and send you something each month for the baby. Know that I'll always hold a special place in my heart for you and our son, Christopher. Love, Teddy,_  it ends. There's a scribbled P.S. tacked onto the end of the letter.  _And if you turn on your radio someday, and hear a song from an up-and-coming singer named Teddy Rockit, you'll know it's me._ "Sounds like a real cad," I mumble, anger rising in me at the callowness of the young man. "Dumping his girlfriend and child in order to pursue a music career." I slip that letter back into the envelope and turn my attention to the final letter.

TO WHOM IT MAY CONCERN reads the block lettering across the back of the envelope. It's not sealed, and when I pull the sheet of paper out, I know exactly what it is: her suicide note. Written on a thin piece of notebook paper, the letter is simple, a singular explanation of why Mary Kearney decided to take her own life on this Christmas Eve. Unfolding the sheet, I begin to read once more.

 _To whomever finds me,_  reads a rounded, girlish script.  _I have decided to end it all, there is nothing more for me to live for. I realize that that sounds very trite and dramatic, like something out of the movies or on tv, but it's true. I really have nothing left to live for. Teddy left me and baby Christopher to follow his dream, forgetting that it was my dream to be with him. I cannot return home, my parents do not want me or my baby back. I have no money, no one to turn to, nowhere to go. All that I had left was my son, but I wanted a better life for him than this one is, so I made sure he was taken care of before I committed this act. I don't want anyone to feel sorry for me, I chose my path and now I'm dealing with the consequences. And this is the best way, all the way around, for I can't see any other way out than this._  The note is signed "Mary" and it's dated with today's date. "Christ," I say under my breath, sorrow pricking at my heart for the young girl on the bed. "You poor kid. You didn't have anyone to turn to when you needed it."

"I've called for the ambulance and the dicks," Reed says quietly from the doorway. "Both are really busy right now, and they don't know when they'll get out here, but they said it'll be sometime tonight, yet. And Mac will get over here as soon as he can, but he's helping Walters and Russo with a domestic abuse call. I had dispatch run her, there's no wants or warrants out on her. She had a clean record." He clears his throat. "What did the letters say?" he asks, coming into the room and closing the door behind him.

"What letters?" I glance at him.

"The letters you were just reading, Pete," he says, pointing to the envelopes on the bureau. "What did they say?"

I look at him, frowning. "How long were you standing there?" I ask him, slightly accusatory.

"Long enough," he says. "So what did they…"

"They were letters from her parents and her boyfriend," I tell him sharply, interrupting him. I lay the letters back on the bureau. "Her parents didn't want her back after her louse of a boyfriend dumped her and their kid, all in pursuit of a musical career. The last letter is her suicide note."

"I've got the item that she gave George for safekeeping," he says. He hands me a tiny manila envelope. "I don't know what it is, I haven't opened it."

"I'll do it," I say. I slip a finger under the flap and open it, upending it over my palm. The object inside the envelope falls out. "It's a ring," I say, picking it up. I turn it to the light for examination, a small diamond solitare, the gold band winking under the light, as the tiny diamond sparkles. "It's an engagement ring," I say.

"Real diamond?" Reed asks.

"Maybe," I say. "I can't tell, though, it's pretty small."

"Why didn't she pawn it if she needed the money so badly?" Reed asks.

"Dunno. Maybe she felt it was one last link to someone she thought loved her very much," I tell him. "In her suicide note, she states that she's made sure the baby was taken care of before she killed herself, but she doesn't say how or what she did with him. We need to see if we can find some sort of information that might lead us to where he's at."

"I'll take the closet," he says. "Her suitcase might have something in it."

"I'll take the kitchen and the bureau," I say. Reed goes over to the closet and pulls out her suitcase, while I cross the room to the kitchenette area. There's very little in the cupboards, other than a couple of scratched plastic dishes and cups, along with some cheap silverware and a couple of small graniteware cooking pots. There's a small container of powdered infant formula for the baby, along with a handful of baby bottles. In the refrigerator, there's a half a loaf of bread, a gallon of milk, a couple of apples, a half-dozen eggs, and a package of bologna. Closing the fridge door, I wander over to the wobbly coffee table, skimming through the small pile of newspapers and magazines on top of it. I find nothing. "I'm comin' up zeroes so far," I tell Reed.

"Yeah, me too," he says. "There's not much in her suitcase, just a couple of maternity tops and a pair of maternity slacks she likely put away after having the baby. There isn't much in the diaper bag, either, just the usual stuff for a baby: a pacifier, cloth diapers, powder, baby wipes. A little blue stuffed dog. There's a couple of changes of clothes for him, and some plastic rattles. That's about it. She evidently didn't have a whole lot of stuff for him." He stands up. "I'm gonna check the bathroom, see what's in there."

"Yeah, okay," I say, going over to the bureau. I slide the top drawer out and riffle through it. It contains her socks and underwear, along with a rather ragged pair of bellbottom jeans and a few worn t-shirts. Closing it back up, I slide the next drawer out. There's more stuff for the baby in this drawer, little onesies and tiny t-shirts, along with wee little socks that don't look like they'd even fit over one of my fingers. There's a handful of neatly folded diapers, and a small box of large safety pins, blue teddy bears on the heads of the safety pins. I slide that drawer shut and pull the bottom drawer out, and this is where I hit the motherlode. I find an elaborately embroidered pink silk scarf wrapped around an object, and I carefully remove the scarf, unfolding it from whatever it's wrapped around. A small red fake-leather diary lies in the palm of my hand, the cover scratched, the spine cracked and loose. I push on the lock mechanisim to open it, but it's locked. I set it atop the bureau and pull out the next item from the drawer.

It's a small box about the size of a shoebox. It's decorated with ribbons and dried flowers, and it's emblazoned with the words "Property of Mary Kearney" across the lid. I set it on the bureau, opening the lid. I find a bunch of sentimental stuff, like report cards and notes from friends, along with several pictures and a little rabbit's foot keychain. There's a packet of letters rubberbanded together, "return to sender" stamped on them. I quickly sort through the stuff, glancing at the pictures of Mary and her friends, Mary and her family, Mary and her boyfriend. I stop when I come to the final picture in the box. I pull it out, turning it to the light in order to see it better. And as I study it, that eerie feeling creeps along the back of my neck, raising my hackles once more. "It can't be," I mutter, squinting at the photograph. "It just can't be. What are the odds?"

"What are what odds, Pete?" Reed asks, coming over to me. "What did you find?"

"Look at this picture," I say, handing it to him.

He takes it from me. "Yeah, so it's a picture of a young couple with a baby, so what?" he asks, frowning.

"Look at the baby," I tell him. "Doesn't the kid look familiar?"

Reed squinches up his face as he scrutinizes the picture intently. Then he blinks in sudden shock. "Holy shit, it's the baby that was found at the church this afternoon, isn't it?" he asks, stunned.

"It sure looks like it," I tell him. "I found it in this box of stuff."

He flips the picture over, reading the inscription on the back. "Mary, Teddy, and baby Christopher. Chris is two months old in this picture," he reads aloud. He stares at me. "Christ, what are the odds that we'd find out who the kid was?" He hands me back the picture.

"We don't know for sure though, that Christopher IS the baby that was found at the church," I say. I riffle through the stuff in the box again. "There's nothing more in here concerning him. No birth certificate, no hospital information, nothing."

"What about her diary there?" Reed asks, nodding his head at the red leather diary on the bureau. "Maybe it's got some information in it, like where she gave birth to him, who to contact in case of emergency, anything like that."

"I doubt that she had anyone to contact in case of emergency," I say. "According to the letters, she was all alone." I pick the diary up, turning it over in my hands. "I hate to pry, I feel like a vulture feasting on the remains of her dignity."

"Pete, you're not prying," he says. "If there's information in there that could help lead us to a guardian for the baby, maybe they can get him out of McLaren Hall." He holds his hand out when he sees me hesitate. "If you won't open it, I will," he says.

"No, I'll open it," I tell him. "There's no key, so I'll have to pop it with my pocketknife." Pulling out my pocketknife, I slip the tip of the knife blade into the lock, the cheap hasp giving easily. I open the thin pages of the gilt-edged book and rapidly skim the entries. Most of the entries are silly nonsense that a teenager would write; stuff that happened in school, grades on papers and tests, things she'd done with friends, family news, her hopes for college, her undying love for Teddy Rokowski. His name is mentioned nearly every page, with glowing hearts and smiley faces, and I feel an ever-growing sense of disgust and dislike for the young man who was callous and selfish enough to convince such a sweet girl to follow him, with the promise of marriage and a cheapo ring, only to dump her when he felt that she and the child were impeding his singing career. I notice the entry in which she finds out that she's pregnant, and she tells how happy she is, knowing that she's going to be a mother. She writes on one tear-stained page how her parents kicked her out of the house when they discovered the pregnancy, but she claims that she doesn't care, since she will happily live with Teddy. The entries become sporadic after that, indicating that she wasn't able to keep up with her writing, either because of lack of time or the fact that she and Teddy evidently moved around a lot. There is one entry, dated October 15, 1969, in which someone has written:  _baby boy born, Rampart Hospital, named Christopher Allen Kearney_. The handwriting is not Mary's, it appears to be Teddy's instead. There is nothing listing the baby's vital statistics at birth.

There's one entry dated December 13, 1969, in which she writes " _Teddy walked out_ ," and nothing more. There seem to be tear stains on the page, and two pages later, she writes " _What am I going to do? I have nowhere to turn, no one to turn to. Teddy is God knows where, and he doesn't want me. I can't go home, my parents don't want me. I tried to pawn the ring and found out it was worthless. I wish I were dead…_ " The entry trails off, more tear stains on the page, and she writes nothing more until the entry dated Thursday. " _Today I went to see a doctor and I lied to him, telling him I was worried and stressed out and not getting sleep at night. He didn't ask any questions, he just gave me a prescription for Seconal. I got it filled, and I'm going to take it, all of it. I don't want this anymore, this life, this world of mine. There's no other way out. I know now what a shitheel Teddy is, and I hope he goes to hell for what he's done to Christopher and I._ " Then there's the final entry, dated today. " _Today's the day_ ," she writes. " _I'm going to do it. I've already dropped Christopher off. It was so hard for me to lay him in that church nativity manger, not knowing how soon he'd be found, but as I tucked his blanket in around him, he looked up at me with those dark blue eyes and gave me a smile, like he was telling me everything was going to be all right. I kissed his little forehead and told him I loved him very much. It broke my heart to leave him there. I ran across the street to the drugstore and waited inside the doors, watching to see if anyone found him. He was only out there for about 20 minutes before a lady from the church found him, so he wasn't out in the cold for very long. After she took him into the church, I went to the bus stop and caught the bus back here, crying the whole way. I hope that whoever gets Christopher will take very good care of him, and love him as much as I have. If my family gets this diary, I'm sorry for all the heartache and pain I caused you. I am a major disappointment to you, Mom and Dad, and I know it. I wish I could take everything back and make it the way it used to be, but I can't. This is the only way I know how. I love you all."_  It's signed at the bottom of the entry, " _Mary_."

"Any useful information?" Reed asks.

I look up with a start, forgetting he's there, I'm so engrossed in the reading. "Huh? Yeah, a little bit."

He holds his hand out. "Lemme see." Reluctantly, I hand it over to him and he quickly flips through the thin pages edged in gold. "Jesus," he says softly as he reads the entries. "This Teddy seems like a real asshole. So do her parents." He pauses on one of the entries. "Huh," he says with interest. "Her baby was born on your birthday, Pete. October 15th."

"Yeah, I know," I say.

He reads until he reaches the final entry, then he closes the diary up with a snap. "Poor kid. She didn't have much going for her, did she?"

"No, evidently not," I say.

"It's really sad, but it still doesn't explain why she left the baby in the manger instead of taking him to a hospital or something, and dropping him off there," he says, putting the diary back on the bureau.

I turn my gaze back to the girl on the bed. "She was probably scared, Jim, and didn't know what else to do. She had no one to turn to, nowhere to go, and she likely felt that she was out of options. So she did the only thing she could think of: put the baby in the manger and hope that someone found him."

"She had other options, though, other than abandoning him and then committing suicide," Reed says. "It's kind of an easy way out of your problems to do that, but it's not the best way."

"She was young, Reed. She didn't know what else to do. Maybe she didn't know how to go about getting help for herself and her baby. To her, this seemed the best way to solve her problems," I say, giving him a sour look. "Never judge a person until you've walked a mile in their shoes. You don't know what kind of troubles they're carrying around inside."

He gives me a curious glance. "Kind of like you tonight, Pete?" he asks.

I'm silent for a moment. "Yeah, kinda," I reply. But my tone does not invite any further conversation, and I'm relieved when Reed turns his attention back to the girl on the bed.

"She looks like an angel lying there," he says softly.

"Fallen," I say.

"Huh?" He looks at me quizzically.

"A fallen angel," I say, my voice quiet.

There's a knock at the door and it opens, admitting Mac. "Sorry," he says, "I got here as soon as I could." He nods at the girl on the bed. "What have we got, a suicide?"

"Yeah, she overdosed on Seconal," I tell him. "We've gone ahead and called for the detectives and an ambulance. We're waiting on them to arrive."

"Who is she, do we know?" Mac asks.

"Her name's Mary Kearney, she's got a Hollywood Hills address," I tell him. "She checked into here under the name of Mary Doe."

"Interesting," Mac says, raising his eyebrows. "I got a call just a little bit ago from Liz Grant. The baby that was found in the manger of St. Patrick's Church was identified through Rampart Hospital records as Christopher Kearney. Any connection?"

"She's his mother," I say, pointing to the dead girl.

"So what's the story?" he asks. "How did the baby wind up in the manger, while she winds up dead?"

I shrug. "It's the oldest story in the book, Mac," I tell him. "She fell in love with a jackass by the name of Teddy Rokowski and wound up getting pregnant by him. Her parents kicked her out when they discovered the pregnancy. She and Teddy lived together, until about two weeks ago, when he skipped out on her and the baby in order to pursue a singing career. She had no money, no job, nothing but her baby and a worthless engagement ring that Teddy had given her. She evidently had no one to turn to, since her parents wouldn't take her back, so she decided to put the baby in the manger at the church, hoping that someone would find him. Then she came back here and killed herself."

"Anything on the father?" he asks. "An address or a phone number?"

"We have his name, Teddy Rokowski, that's about it," I say. "The dicks can try running it down, see if they get anywhere, but my guess is he doesn't want to be found."

"She leave a note?" Mac asks.

"There on the bureau," I say. "There's also two letters, one from her parents and one from Teddy. I found her diary and a box of personal stuff in a bureau drawer."

"How'd you connect her with the found baby?" he asks.

"Pete found a picture in the box," Reed says. "The baby in the picture is the baby that we found this afternoon. That's how we connected it."

"Any information on her parents, or who she left as an emergency contact?" Mac asks.

"No, no emergency contact," I say. "As far as her parents, all we have is the return address out in Hollywood Hills on the envelope."

"What time was she last seen?" Mac asks.

"Couple of days ago, according to George the manager," Reed says. "He called us to do the welfare check when she didn't pay her rent on time yesterday. " He shrugs. "Of course, she could've come and gone and George might not have noticed it," he adds.

"She made a couple of entries in her diary over the last couple of days or so," I tell Mac. "She told how she got the Seconal and planned to take it in order to end her life. She also writes about putting the baby in the manger and waiting across the street to see if anyone found him. She apologizes to her parents for disappointing them, and then she says that she's going to end it. That's about it, Mac."

"Pretty cut and dried," Mac says. He rubs his chin. "Okay, why don't you two go ahead and deliver the death notification to her parents. I'll stay with the body until the ambulance and the detectives gets here."

"Do you want us to find out what funeral home they want the body sent to after autopsy?" Reed asks, scribbling the Hollywood Hills address down in his notebook.

"Yeah, find out and let me know," Mac says.

I cast one last glance at the pale girl lying so still on the bed, her white satin nightgown spread out around her body like an angel's wings, her golden hair fanned out behind her head like a shining halo. I feel a sharp pang of sorrow for her and her wasted young life, and then I move out of the doorway into the hall, followed by Jim Reed.

"Can you imagine that?" Reed asks as we start down the hallway to the steps. "I mean, finding the baby's mother like that?"

"No, I can't imagine," I say, my tone flat. I notice that the drunk that was passed out in the chair on the second-floor landing has moved on, leaving behind the empty bottle of muscatel and a wet stain on the floor.

"Pretty amazing," Reed says as we go down the steps. "I mean, what are the freakin' odds?"

"Yeah," I say.

"Got a dead one up there, huh?" George asks from his perch behind the desk. "Figures. At least I called you guys before she started stinkin'."

I pause, staring at him, jarred by his cavalier attitude. "Sergeant MacDonald will stay with the body until the ambulance attendants and the detectives get here," I tell him icily.

"Suicide?" he asks, coughing wetly into the hanky.

"She overdosed on barbituates," Reed tells him.

"I shoulda figured she'd pull a stunt like that," George says. "Ones like her always do."

"What do you mean, ones like her?" I ask a bit sharply.

"Oh, them richie-bitches. I had her pegged as a rich gal. Even though her clothes were pretty threadbare, they were obviously expensive. And she talked like she'd had a lot of schoolin'. She had a helluva lot more class than that dippy boyfriend of hers did, that's for damn sure." He frowns, brows furrowed together. "What happened to the baby? She kill him, too?"

"He was found in a church manger and has been taken into the care of McLaren Hall until other arrangements can be made for him," Reed says.

George cackles with laughter. "No foolin'?" he asks. "She really dumped him in a church manger? His name wasn't Jesus Christ, was it?"

"No," I tell George, my voice tight. "And I don't exactly find abandoning a two-month old child in a church manger and then coming back here to commit suicide amusing, George."

He catches the sharp tone in my voice. "Hey, don't get snippy with me, Malloy. All I was sayin' was…"

"All you were saying was a bunch of crap," I tell him, giving him a deadly look. Disgust and loathing for his callousness wash over me in a heated wave. "You didn't know anything about that girl OR her problems. All you cared about was your rent." I jerk my head at Reed. "C'mon, let's get outta this dump," I say. I stalk down the short hallway, my shoes clicking on the cracked marble tile.

"Merry Christmas, George," Reed says, hurrying to catch up.

"Whatever," George coughs, the wheels on his chair squeaking in protest as he sits back down behind the desk.

I'm already starting to get into the squad car when Reed reaches the passenger side. "Before you say anything, I don't wanna hear it," I tell him, holding my hand up. I look over at him. "If you wanna go back inside and tell Mac about my attitude, be my guest."

He stares at me for a long moment, trying to read my emotions, but the darkness prevents him from seeing into my eyes. "No, I'm not gonna do that, Pete," he says finally. "I think if maybe you talked to me and told me what was bugging you, maybe that would help. You started to tell me what was bothering you before we got this call. Why don't you tell me now?"

"No," I say sharply. "Maybe later." It's a lie, since I have no intention of telling Jim Reed any of my problems, but he doesn't need to know that. I pull away from the curb. "What's the address again in Hollywood Hills?"

"2525 Milner Road," he says. He picks up the radio mike and keys it. "Dispatch, this is One-Adam-12. Show us code six, en route to 2525 Milner Road on a follow-up to this welfare check call we were just dispatched on."

 _"Dispatch copies, One-Adam-12,"_ the dispatcher replies.

Reed looks at his watch. "After we get this notification done, it'll be about time to head for the barn."

"Great," I say. "I'll be glad when this night is over."

"You're not the only one," he says, turning his gaze back toward the window. "Huh," he says, grinning. "Looks like it's starting to snow. How's THAT for a miracle?"

And sure enough, coming down in huge fat flakes, it is snowing in the world outside of Adam-12, the headlights from the squad picking the flakes out in their beams. "Crap," I mutter. "That's ALL we need."

"Uh-huh," Reed murmurs, drumming his fingers on the side of the door. "I'll have a blue Christmas…without you," he sings, but there is no enthusiasm in his voice. "I'll be so blue…thinking…about you…"

"Jim, please," I say wearily. "I'm asking nicely. Stop singing."

He looks over at me for a moment. "Yeah, okay," he relents, turning his gaze back to the passenger window. "I'm not much in the mood to sing now, anyway."

And then the babble of traffic and hiss of static over the radio is the only sound in the squad car as I drive to the home of Mary Kearney's parents, in order to deliver the message to them that their eighteen-year-old daughter has taken her young life, downing a full bottle of Seconal after abandoning her child in a church manger.

* * *

"Nice home," Reed comments as we pull up outside of 2525 Milner Road.

"Yeah, I suppose," I say. The expensive-looking house is tastefully decorated with white lights on the eaves, a red-ribboned wreath on the door, and a large Christmas tree decked out in white twinkle lights in the picture window. It's the epitome of tact, unlike Mr. Griswold's retina-searing display from earlier.

"Which one of us should be the one to tell her folks that she's dead?" Reed asks as we walk up the front sidewalk to the home of Mary Kearney's parents.

"I'll let you do it," I say. "If you want."

"Yeah, okay," he agrees. "I need the practice. But I'll let you ring the doorbell, Pete."

"Oh, gee, THANKS," I say sarcastically, rolling my eyes. I jab at the doorbell with an index finger, and we listen as the chimes gently ring out within the house.

"Teacher says every time a bell rings, an angel gets his wings," he says, giving me a small grin.

"Knock it off," I tell him sternly, completely unamused.

A blonde girl of about sixteen answers the door. She's dressed in a blue sweater and jeans. "Yes?" she asks, looking at us with confusion. "May I help you?"

"Is this the Kearney residence?" I ask.

"Yes," she says. "Why? What's the problem?"

"I'm Officer Malloy and this is my partner, Officer Reed," I tell her. "Are your parents home? We need to speak to them."

"Uh…yeah," she says hesitantly. "Why do you need to speak with them?"

"It's in regards to an incident we're currently investigating," I tell her, slightly irritated with her questions. "Could we please talk to them?"

"Dad! Mom!" she yells over her shoulder. "There's two cops at the door that need to talk with you!" She holds the door open for us to enter. "You might as well come in," she says.

"Thanks," I tell her as we enter, removing our watchcaps. The hall we stand in is tiled in white and grey ceramic tiles, the wallpaper a tasteful pattern of white and grey flowers. Nearby stands an oaken coat rack, along with a small bench to sit down on in order to remove your shoes. Off to our right, a winding staircase with an ornate wooden bannister leads to the upstairs. Reed and I stand in uncomfortable silence as the teenage girl takes us in with curiosity.

"This isn't about Cindy Evans getting her house teepeed, is it?" she asks, eyeing us warily. "Because I had nothing to do with that. And if she claims I did, she's lying."

"No, it's not about that," I tell her.

A man, recognizable as her father from the family photograph in Mary's wallet, comes out of the living room, followed by a diminuitive blonde woman who could be Mary in twenty years or so. "What's this about, Officers?" he asks us, his voice sternly authoritarian. He's dressed in a green cardigan over a white shirt, with plaid pants. His wife is dressed in a long hostess gown with pink flowers on it.

"Are you Mr. Kearney?" Reed asks.

"Yes, I'm Frank Kearney and this is my wife, Elaine," he says.

"I'm Officer Reed and this is my partner, Officer Malloy," Reed tells him. "Is there somewhere we could go to sit down?"

"Not until you tell me what this is all about," he says. "We've not done anything that would warrant having two police officers show up on our doorsteps at this time of night."

"No, sir, no one's done anything wrong," Reed explains. "It's about your daughter, Mary. She was…"

"Beth, you go to your room!" he interrupts, barking suddenly at his daughter.

"But Dad," she protests.

"NOW, young lady!" he orders sharply.

"Fine," she huffs, climbing the steps to her room. She hesitates at the top of the stairs, looking back down at us.

"Beth, NOW!" he roars, pointing to an area over our heads. "And you shut that door, too!"

Giving him an angry glare, she hurries down the hallway to her room, her footsteps pounding over our heads. Moments later a door slams shut.

"Mr. Kearney, it's about your daughter, Mary," Reed begins again, clearing his throat. "She was…"

"I have no daughter named Mary," he says, his dark eyes narrowed as he regards us both with open hostility. "The daughter that I had named Mary is dead to me now."

"Mr. Kearney, if you'll just let me explain…" Reed says. He gives me a helpless glance.

"Your daughter  _is_  dead, Mr. Kearney," I tell him bluntly, my anger rising at his harsh attitude. His wife gasps in shock, her hands going to her face, but I continue. "She committed suicide in a rooming house, after abandoning her baby in a church manger. The child has been taken to the hospital, where he'll be kept overnight for observation, then he'll be turned over to McLaren Hall until someone claims him. Now, we'll need to know what funeral home you'd like Mary's body taken to after autopsy."

"I told you I have no daughter named Mary," he snaps viciously. "I don't give a rat's ass about her stupid kid, and as far as her goddamned body, let it rot in a pauper's grave for all I care!" He turns to his wife. "Now, I'm going back into the living room and finish watching the movie, Elaine, since I have no desire to stand around here arguing with two cops over the fate of my ex-daughter. Are you coming?"

"In a moment," she says, silent tears running down her cheeks. "You go on, Frank."

"Don't you let them hornswoggle you into doing anything about Mary's brat or her body," he tells her sharply, pointing a derisive finger at us. "It's not any of our concern anymore. Mary made her choice a long time ago and whatever happens to her child or her body isn't our goddamned problem." Giving us a final glare, he stomps back down the hallway to the living room. A few seconds later, the volume on the tv goes up.  _"Help me, Clarence, please! Please! I wanna live again!"_ I hear Jimmy Stewart's voice ring out.  _"I wanna live again! Please God, let me live again!"_

Mrs. Kearney looks at us, swiping at her tears with the palm of her hand. "How?" she whispers, not from fear of her husband, but from sorrow. "How did Mary do it?"

"She took an overdose of sleeping pills," I tell her gently. "Mrs. Kearney, would you like to sit down?" I ask, gesturing to the wooden bench behind her.

"No, no," she says, shaking her head. "I'm fine."

"I apologize for being so blunt," I say.

"I understand," she says. "My husband is very difficult at times." She bites her lip. "Mary was his pet. He had great plans for her, but she took those plans and threw them into our faces when she ran off with that boy. It broke his heart, you see." She draws in a deep breath, then she continues. "I knew that Mary had gotten pregnant by that boy, and she had the child. She called us on the phone, asking if we wanted to see our grandson, but Frank told her no, and hung up on her." She pauses, then she turns and sits down on the bench. "After that, Mary called when she knew her father wouldn't be home. I made arrangements with her to meet her at the library, just so I could get a glimpse of my grandbaby."

"Were you able to meet her?" Reed asks. "And see the baby?"

She nods. "Yes," she says, her lips trembling. Fresh tears begin to flow from her eyes, and she pulls a hanky from her pocket and begins to dab at them. "He was beautiful," she says. "He looked just like she did when she was a baby. She said they'd named him Christopher, after my father. I gave her a little bit of money to help her out, and I arranged to meet her again. Frank found out about it and went ballistic. He forbade me to ever see her again, and threatened me with divorce if he found out I'd gone behind his back anyway. So I never saw her or the baby again." She drops her head into her hands and begins to sob. "Lord help me, I loved my daughter, but I need my husband," she weeps brokenly. "I rely on him for monetary support."

Reed steps forward, putting a gentle hand on her shoulder. "It's alright, Mrs. Kearney."

"No, it's not alright," she sobs. "I gave up my daughter and grandson for the money and comfort I currently enjoy." She looks up at Reed woefully. "What kind of mother does that make me?" she asks. "That I'd give up ever seeing my daughter and grandson again, just because I don't want to lose my home life?"

"It doesn't make you a bad mother by any means, if that's what you're thinking," Reed assures her.

"Frank went so far as to change our telephone number so Mary couldn't call anymore," she says. She runs a shaky hand through her hair. "Then Mary tried writing me, but Frank found out about that, too, and began sending her letters back to her, unopened. Mary never gave up, though. She still continued to write." She falls silent, studying her hands. "Frank told me two weeks ago that he'd gotten a letter from her, begging us to let her come back here and live, at least until she got back on her feet. She said that her boyfriend had left her and the baby, taking off for parts unknown in order to become a singer. Hah, some singer," she spits derisively. "Anyway, she was desperate and needed help. I pleaded with Frank to let us help her, but he refused. He wrote her back, telling her that she'd made her bed, now she needed to lie in it. He told her to stop writing us and trying to contact us. And that was it. I never heard anything more from her."

 _"A toast to my brother George: the richest man in the world,"_ says Harry Bailey on the tv in the backround.

Mrs. Kearney looks up at us. "What will happen now? With the baby, I mean?"

"He'll be placed into temporary custody at McLaren Hall," Reed tells her gently. "They'll make an effort to contact the father. If he doesn't come forth and take custody of the child, he'll be made a ward of the state. From there, he'll likely be placed up for adoption."

"Was he found right away? After Mary put him in the manger?" she asks.

"He was found fairly soon, yes," I tell her. "Mary apparently placed him into the outdoor nativity scene at St. Patrick's Church, then went across the street to the drugstore and watched from the inside, waiting to see if he was found. He was discovered by one of the ladies from the church and taken inside. After she saw that he was safely taken care of, Mary took the bus back home to her rooming house. That's where she took the pills and killed herself."

"When did she do this?" she asks. "This afternoon?"

"Yes," Reed tells her. "We're not sure what time she placed the baby in the manger, but all of this occurred this afternoon. In fact, Officer Malloy and I were the ones who took the found child call at the church."

"Did she leave any kind of a note saying why she did this?" she asks.

"Yes, she did," I tell her. "In the note, she said that she didn't have anywhere to go or anyone to turn to, so this was the best way out."

"What will…what will happen to her body?" she asks, her voice quavering.

"If no arrangements are made for a funeral home to pick the body up at the morgue, she'll be buried in an unmarked plot in the pauper's section of the cemetery," I say.

"I see," she says, her lips trembling again. "It's probably best this way," she says, staring at her hands as tears begin to fall from her eyes once more. "The baby will never know who his family was, so he'll be starting out on a fresh page of life."

"If he gets adopted," Reed says. "But the baby has family, he's got a set of grandparents, along with an aunt. Doesn't he deserve to know them, Mrs. Kearney?"

"You have to understand," she says slowly. "My husband is not a cruel or vicious man by any means, Officers. But when he lays down the law, he means it to stick, and heaven help us if we disobey him." She shakes her head. "No, no, it's better this way, trust me. I wouldn't want to inflict my husband on an innocent child." She stands up. "Thank you, Officers, for coming out here to tell us," she says.

Reed takes one of his cards out of his breast pocket. "Here," he says, writing on the back of it. "There's the number for McLaren Hall if you change your mind about Christopher. If you call that, they can tell you how to go about starting adoption proceedings."

 _"Look, Daddy! Teacher says every time a bell rings, an angel gets his wings!"_ chirps little ZuZu Bailey from the tv in the other room.

"I've also written down the number for the city morgue," Reed says. "In case you change your mind about that, too. You can contact them and make arrangements to have Mary's body picked up."

"I…I can't," she whispers, but she takes the card from Reed, tucking it into her pocket. "You…you understand, don't you?" she asks, looking at us with pleading eyes.

"Yes, we do," Reed lies, giving her a gentle smile.

I don't answer her, instead I start towards the door. "If you have any questions, Mrs. Kearney, you can call the station at the number on the card. Ask for Officer Malloy or Officer Reed. If we're not available, ask for Sergeant MacDonald, or the watch commander. He should be able to help you," I tell her. I slip my hand into my coat pocket, my fingers touching on something…the picture of Mary and her baby. I must have tucked it away in my pocket without even realizing it. I pull it out, staring at it for a moment before handing it to her. "Here," I say. "It's a picture of your daughter and your grandson. We found it in her room at the rooming house."

She takes it from me, eyes studying the picture sadly. "Oh, I shouldn't," she moans, clasping the picture to her breast. "I really shouldn't take this. If Frank finds it, he'll destroy it." She bows her head, weeping, clutching the picture tightly.

"Mrs. Kearney, my partner and I are really sorry we had to ruin your Christmas with such terrible news," Reed says.

 _"Should auld acquaintance be forgot, and never brought to mind…should auld acquaintance be forgot…and days of Auld Lang Syne…"_  sings the crowd in George Bailey's living room.

"I understand," Mrs. Kearney weeps. "Thank you, Officers. You're only doing your jobs."

 _"For Auld Lang Syne, my dear…for Auld Lang Syne…we'll take a cup of kindness, yet… for Auld Lang Syne…"_  sings the crowd on tv.

"You try and have a merry Christmas now," Reed says as I open the front door.

"Thank you," she says, holding the door. "You, too." She lingers for a moment, then she shuts the door softly behind us.

"Christ, that was harsh," Reed says as we walk to the car. "We've done death notifications, but nothing like that one was."

"Get used to it, there'll be others," I tell him.

"Look at the snow, Pete," Reed says, gazing about the lightly whitened landscape with wonderment. There's a light dusting of it, mostly in the grassy areas, but some of it sticks on the pavement. "It's really pretty," he says, grinning. "Who'd a thunk it? Snow in Los Angeles." It continues to fall, hushing the landscape in a muted white blanket.

"It's not pretty when there's a foot of it," I tell him as we climb into the squad car. "Besides, it won't stay on the ground long, it's too warm." I start the engine up, pulling away from the curb.

"I didn't know you'd swiped that picture of Mary and her baby," he says after he clears us with dispatch.

"I didn't swipe it, I just put it into my coat pocket without thinking," I say. "I didn't realize I'd even done it until I stuck my hand in my pocket and found it."

"That was a nice thing that you did, though, letting her have the picture," he says. "But I don't think you shoulda blurted out that Mary was dead quite like that. It was pretty blunt."

"I could see that Mr. Kearney wasn't going to let you finish a sentence, so I jumped in," I tell him, carefully steering the car through the winding and curvy road ahead. The snow and rain on the roadway has made the pavement slushily slick, and I keep my speed down as we drive through the curves. The memory of how to drive in snowy conditions when I lived in Seattle comes back to me quite easily.

"I woulda got it done," he says, sounding slightly hurt. "If you'd just given me the chance."

"Sorry," I say, my tone a bit snarky. "I didn't realize that it was so important to you. Next time I'll butt the hell out, even if it takes you the whole watch to get the death message out."

He falls silent, lost in thought. "I hope she convinces her husband to change his mind about the baby," he says. "I hope that they decide to adopt Christopher after all."

"You know as well as I do, Reed, that the chances of that happening are very slim. Mr. Kearney made his feelings rather clear," I say bitterly.

"I dunno," he says, shrugging. "Maybe he'll miraculously come around." He glances over at me. "You know, for all the miracles we've seen tonight, both big and small, you still haven't changed your grinchy attitude."

"What miracles?" I ask sourly. "There were no miracles that I could see, Reed."

"The baby in the manger," he says, holding a finger up. He begins to tick the miracles off. "The Atkins kids getting taken out of that truly horrible home, finding out who placed the baby in the manger in the first place, and then the snow falling right now, in a city that NEVER sees snow. Plus there's the fact that we rescued Mr. Griswold from a pine tree, you paid for a young couple to get a tree for their kids, you went in and rescued Raylene's donkey for her, and we settled the Parker dispute without having to arrest anyone. Now if those aren't miracles, I don't know what is, Pete."

"They're not miracles, Jim," I tell him. "They're just incidents that occurred on our watch." I glance over at him. "You're only seeing miracles in them because you want to. You read more into an ordinary incident on account of it being Christmas Eve and you want that bright, happy feeling that you get when you think something magical and unexplainable has happened. You want to believe in something that doesn't exist, simply because it makes you feel good inside."

"So? What's wrong with that?" he asks. "What's wrong with believing in miracles and stuff like that? Millions of people do, you know."

"I know," I say. "And there's nothing wrong with believing in miracles and stuff. I just don't, Reed. I haven't for a long, long time."

He stares at me for a long moment, then he speaks, his voice weary. "I don't know what's wrong with you tonight, but all I wanna do now is just finish the watch out so I can go home to my family. I've tried to get you to talk to me and tell me what's bothering you, but it's like trying to get the freakin' Sphinx to talk. I don't know what your problem is, Pete, and quite frankly, I really don't give a damn." He turns his gaze to the window.

His uncharacteristic bluntness stuns me for a moment, then I recover. "I'm headed to the barn now," I tell him tightly. "It's nearly midnight. Then you can go home and leave me alone."

"Good," he says. "I'm looking forward to it. A full two days without the bitter sarcasm of Pete Malloy."

"Me, too," I snap. "I've had enough of you tonight, Reed, with your awful singing and your stupid jokes." Then the two of us fall quiet, stung by each other's sharp remarks, nursing our wounded pride in silence. The windshield wipers beat out a lulling rhythm while the tires hiss softly on the wet pavement. The beams of the headlights pick out the fat white flakes of snow that are still falling from the sky. The road that we're on is eerily deserted tonight, the quiet desolation stretching out ahead of us in inky silence.

Rounding the final curve in the road out of Hollywood Hills, we come onto a long straightaway. The lights from an oncoming car, the only car I've seen on this road tonight, momentarily blinds me. They have their high-beams on, and I give the high-beams of Adam-12 a quick flash, warning them to turn theirs off.

"You shouldn't do that, Pete," Reed says. "If you flash your brights at them, it can blind them, causing them to crash."

The oncoming car flicks its lights back to the normal beams, but it drifts slightly into our lane. The driver corrects, guiding the car back into its own lane. After a second, it does it again, the driver quickly correcting it.

"What the hell is their problem?" Reed asks, frowning.

"It's probably a deuce," I tell him. "As soon as it gets by us, I'll swing around and go after it."

But I don't get that chance. As the car approaches us on the straightaway, it drifts into our lane once more. The driver overcorrects, jerking the wheel sharply to the right, dropping the right front tire off of the pavement onto the shoulder. They quickly yank the wheel back, jouncing the vehicle back onto the road.

Then everything seems to happen in slow-motion. As the car regains its footing on the pavement, it hits a slick spot and begins to slide sideways, right in front of Adam-12. "PETE!" Jim yells as I slam on the brakes and twist the wheel of the squad car to the left, trying to avoid the collision. But it's no use. We hit nearly head-on, in a jarring crunch of shrieking, grinding metal, squealing tires, and shattering glass. Adam-12 spins sickeningly in the roadway, flinging Reed and I both to the side, and I catch a glimpse of the other car as it whizzes past us, spinning violently off into the right-side ditch, while the squad car hits the left-side ditch. We teeter for just a brief moment on the edge of the ditch, just long enough for Reed and I to exchange a frightened glance; then the car slowly slides into the underbrush of the steep ditch, drunkenly tilting sideways on the passenger side, majestically rolling over just once in a flash of blinding white light and screeching metal before coming to rest on its wheels with a heavy and jolting thud.

And then there is nothing, except the falling snow and silence.


	6. Oh Holy Night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **ALL ORIGINAL CONTENT OF THIS STORY IS THE SOLE PROPERTY OF BAMBOOZLEPIG AND MAY NOT BE USED WITHOUT PERMISSION.** In order to enhance the overall plot experience, creative liberties may have been intentionally taken with the real-life protocols depicted herein.

_O HOLY NIGHT_

… _Peter, I know you don't think we had good Christmases when you were a kid, but we did. I remember, the very first Christmas after you were born, your daddy took you outside to see the snow coming down. You were only a couple of months old, and I was worried that the chilly air would make you start crying, but as the snowflakes hit your face, you looked up into the sky like you were seeing a wonderful miracle or something. And then you started laughing, a happy little belly laugh, which made your father and I start laughing, too. It was quite a sight, two adults and one tiny baby laughing in the snow, as flakes stuck to our eyelashes and in our hair. Then, another Christmas I remember, you were about five, and your daddy took us out in a sleigh ride in a nearby field. It was freezing out, and snowing to boot, but we stayed warm, all huddled up under that old sleigh blanket of your Grandmother Malloy's. We had such fun! Your daddy stopped the sleigh and we got out to play in the snow. The three of us had a snowball fight, and we made snow angels. You fell into a drift and got scared because you couldn't get back out. Your daddy pulled you out, laughing as he brushed the snow off of you. He called you his little snowman, since you loved the snow so much. And then we came home and had hot chocolate and cookies, and I played Christmas carols on the piano for us, the three of us singing as loud as we could. And do you remember when he used to take you sledding down Boston Hill? And how you two would make snowmen in the front yard? You loved your daddy so much, and just thought the world of him, Peter. It's too bad the war had to come along and take that good man away from us, returning a complete stranger to us instead._

_Mom, I only remember a couple of the good Christmases, since I was so young at the time. But I have the feeling that you didn't exactly call me to reminisce over ghosts of Christmases past, did you, Mom?_

_No, I didn't, Peter. I didn't call just to reminisce over old Christmas memories with you, dear. I called because of your father._

_Why? What's wrong with Dad? What's he done now, Mom?_

_Peter, I think you need to come home as soon as you can, okay?_

_Mom, I can't just hop on a plane and fly home on a moment's notice. I've got a job that I can't up and take time off from without some advance notice._

_I know that, dear, but I think you need to come home._

_Why? Why do I need to come home? Tell me, Mom._

_It's your father, Peter, he's…_

* * *

_Oh holy night, the stars are brightly shining..._ a sweet soprano trills softly in my ears.  _It is the night of the dear Savior's birth..._

"Who's singing?" I mutter.

"Pete, are you okay?" I hear a panicky voice from next to me, and it's definitely not a match for the sweet soprano. "PETE!" A hand roughly shakes my shoulder. "Answer me, Pete!" the voice demands sharply, a slight edge of hysteria in the tone. "Are you okay?"

"Wha…what happened?" I ask thickly, slowly opening my eyes. My face is pressed up against something hard and unyielding; it takes me a moment to realize that my head is resting on the steering wheel of a car...our car, Adam-12. "Where the hell are we?" I ask, gingerly peeling myself off of the steering column I am slumped over. Almost immediately, my brain begins to protest the movement, as a bass-drum throbbing starts pounding from somewhere near the front of my skull. My left hip and my right knee begin to throb in accompaniment, while sharp darts of pain lace through my ribcage on both sides, a four-part harmony of aches singing throughout my body. Grimacing, I slowly turn to see Jim Reed looking at me, his eyes wide with fear. "What happened?" I ask again, trying to gather my wits about me. "Where are we?"

"Are you alright?" he asks me worriedly.

"I will be if you tell me what happened," I tell him.

"We were in a car wreck, Pete, don't you remember?" he asks.

I think for a moment, trying vainly to recall the wreck, but it plays hide-and-seek around the pounding kettle drums in my brain. "I…I guess," I say to him. I am dimly aware of the hissing sound of steam escaping from the smashed radiator of the car, and I glance out the cracked windshield to see the black hood of Adam-12 crumpled up towards the sky. I feel something warm oozing down my forehead and I put my hand up to swipe it away. My hand comes away covered in blood. "What happened?" I ask again, frowning at the blood on my fingers. "Why am I bleeding?"

"Pete, we were in a car accident," Reed says, his voice sharp with concern. "An oncoming car skidded into the path of ours and we hit almost head-on. We ended up in the ditch. Don't you remember any of it?"

I ponder it, turning my gaze to the starred and cracked windshield. There's a smear of blood on the inside of it, right in front of me. I look over at Jim, frowning. "Did I hit the windshield?" I ask, dumbly pointing to the smear of bright red. "Did I black out?"

"I don't know if you hit the windshield, but you were out for a minute or so, at least," he says.

"Are you hurt?" I ask, peering at him, noticing the trickle of blood from his nose.

He thinks on it for a second, then he replies. "I hit my nose, and I think my knee's banged up pretty good, but I'm more worried about you, Pete. If you hit your head on the windshield, you might have a concussion."

"I dunno," I say. "I think I have a pretty hard head, and I seem to recall someone joking about that fact earlier tonight. I think I just got my wits rattled, that's all."

"Quick, tell me who the president is," he says.

I draw in a deep breath and am rewarded by a sharp stab in my left ribcage, causing me to quickly blow the breath out in a sigh. "It's Nixon," I tell him, carefully keeping my pain hidden. "And the date is December 24, 1969. My name is Peter Joseph Malloy, and I'm a cop with the LAPD, badge number 744, serial…serial…I didn't have cereal for breakfast, I had toast," I say. "Who wants to know about cereal?" I peer at Reed once more. "And who would you be, young man?" I ask him.

"PETE!" Reed says sharply, gripping my shoulder tight enough to make me wince in pain. "You're not making any sense!"

"Leggo of my shoulder," I groan, twisting away. "I'm just yanking your chain, Jim. I'm kidding you."

"Jesus Christ," he hisses angrily, relief visible in his eyes. "Knock it the hell off, Pete, you're scarin' the crap outta me!"

"No, the accident shoulda done that," I say, trying to grin. I jab a finger at the radio. "So why haven't we been rescued yet?" I ask. "Surely you got on the radio and told dispatch we'd TA'd, didn't you?"

"The radio's dead," he tells me. "The antenna musta snapped off when we rolled."

"Wait a sec, we  _rolled_?" I ask. "I don't remember that."

"You don't remember ANY of the wreck at all?" he asks worriedly. "That's not good, Pete, it really sounds like you have a concussion."

Catching his concern, I grin again. "I'm teasin' ya, Jim. Of course I remember rolling the car," I tell him, even though I honestly don't. But he doesn't need to know that. "And I don't have a concussion, I have a percussion…an entire orchestra percussion pounding out 'The 1812 Overture' in my brain. I'm surprised you can't hear them, they're that loud."

"This is no time to regain your sense of humor, Pete!" Reed snaps. "We've gotta get out of this car and check on the other driver!"

"You mean you can't get out on your side?" I ask.

"I tried and the damned door's jammed," he says. "I also tried rolling the window down, and it won't move."

"Lemme try mine," I say. I yank on the handle and it doesn't budge. I shove my shoulder against the door, hard, and am rewarded with another sharp dart of pain in my ribcage. "Oww…" I start to groan, then I catch sight of Reed's worried look, so I hastily change it. "Hoo," I pant, hoping he doesn't see the glimmer of pain in my eyes. A thin sweat breaks out on my forehead. "Door's good and stuck, partner." I try the window, with no luck there, either.

"Let me try the back ones," he says, gripping the rear of the front seat in his hands. "Maybe one of them will give." He wriggles partially over the seat, hanging there halfway, ass up in the air and rather dangerously close to my head as he stretches his arms out to try the doors and windows.

"Hey, do you MIND?" I ask sharply, giving his butt a disdainful glare. "I don't appreciate having your ass in my face, Reed."

"I'm sorry, but deal with it, Malloy," he says. "Damn it," he says, yanking on the handle of the passenger back door of the cruiser. "It's jammed." He slides over, leaning into me as he tries the back door on my side of the car. "Same thing," he groans in frustration. "Jammed. Windows won't roll down, either." He turns and slithers back into his seat, the car rocking with his movements.

"Uh…this car isn't in danger of rolling again, is it?" I ask, gripping the steering wheel. "I'd like a little advance warning if it is."

"I wouldn't know, Pete," he says. "Not having been able to actually EXIT the car to see."

"We'll hafta break a window in order to get out, it seems," I say.

"Which one?" he asks, pulling his nightstick from the holder on the door. "Your side or mine?"

"I was actually thinking of the windshield," I say. "It's already pretty cracked up, so it shouldn't take too much to bust it the rest of the way out."

"Side window would be better, I think," he says.

"It would seem that way, yes," I tell him. "But any shift in weight on either your side of the car or mine could make it roll again. And if it starts rolling while one of us is halfway out the window…well, you can imagine what would happen. We'd get flung free or smashed, one of the two."

He thinks for a moment. "Yeah, okay, you're probably right." Gripping the nightstick in both fists, he begins to hammer the butt of it against the cracked windshield. It only takes a couple of strong blows before the nightstick breaks through the safety glass with a brisk popping sound. Shards of glass tinkle in on us as he swipes the nightstick back and forth, up and down, clearing enough of a hole in the glass to allow us to squirm through. "I'll go out first, Pete," he says. "I'll see which side is safest for us to get out on. Then I'll help you out, okay?"

"Sounds like a plan, man," I say, clicking my tongue and pointing my thumb and index finger at him like a gun. "Just try not to cut yourself on the glass, okay?"

"You know, I'm really worried about you," he says, gripping the dashboard in his hands. "You're not acting right, Pete." Grunting, he begins to heave himself out through the hole in the windshield, his head and shoulders disappearing out over the hood first, then he kicks and wriggles his feet and legs, pulling and squirming the rest of his body through. Sliding across the hood into a sitting position, he takes his flashlight from his pocket and shines it down on the ground, first on the left side, then on the right side of the car. "Once you get out, slide off over on your side," he says, looking back in at me. "It's a little more solid landing there, it looks like." He tugs on the windshield, peeling more of the safety glass back in order to let me out. Then he slides off the hood, landing with a thud on the ground. "Yeah, it's safe on this side, Pete," he says. The car groans slightly as Reed's weight leaves it, but it stays on its wheels.

I hand him out his nightstick. "Here," I say. "In case we need to break the window on the other car." I slide across the seat and grip the dashboard in my palms, heaving myself forward, and I begin to squeeze through the opening in the windshield. Shards of glass crunch against my coat and the sharp darts of pain in my ribcage become screaming, jagged jabs as I work myself through, causing me to let out a hiss between gritted teeth. A searing sharp glint of pain washes over me in a heated wave, threatening to sweep me away in the undertow. The snow has turned back over to icy rain, and it pounds down on my head, cooling the sweat that has broken out there. I pause, letting it soothe me as I gather the strength to hoist myself the rest of the way through the window.

"Can you make it?" he asks.

"Yeah," I grunt, trying not to breathe too deeply. Putting my palms onto the wet hood of the car, I slide forward on my stomach, heaving and thrashing my way through the window frame, just like Reed had done. "I'm gettin' too old for this shit," I say, as another dart of pain sears across me, nearly blinding me.

"Here, let me help you," he says, and gripping the back of my coat, he helps haul me out. "Are you okay?" he asks, frowning, as I slowly work myself into a sitting position on the hood of the car.

"Yeah," I pant. My hand strays to my chest, and I rub at the pain there. "I'm okay." I tilt my head up to the rain, closing my eyes, letting it sluice across my face. It hits the cut on my forehead, making it sting. I sit there for a moment, gathering my wits. "Let's check on the other driver," I say, sliding off of the hood. The minute my feet hit the ground though, my knees start to buckle and blackness swims before my eyes, and a buzzing sensation like a thousand angry bees fills my brain.

"Whoa!" Reed yelps, grabbing onto me, steadying me against the side of the car. "Pete, you're not okay!"

I scrub a hand across my damp face, willing the swirling blackness to go away. "I am too," I mumble. "I just had a bit of a head rush, that's all." Leaning forward, hands on my knees, I try to catch my breath as best as I can without inciting the pain to start rioting again. I shake my head, clearing it of the buzzing sensation, but unfortunately not of the jungle drums still pounding out a vicious tattoo. I push him away. "I'm fine, and quit asking me," I tell him sharply. I pull my flashlight out of my pocket. "Where'd the other car land at?" I ask, shining the beam around.

"Other ditch," he says. "Think you can walk, Pete?"

"Of course I can," I tell him, taking a couple of tottery steps on my own.

"Why don't you let me hang onto you, just in case?" he offers. He grabs onto my upper arm.

"Touch me and you die!" I snap, yanking my arm out of his grasp.

"At least let me help you out of the goddamned ditch," he snaps back. "Before you slip and fall, hurting yourself worse than you already are." Shining the flashlight on the dead vegetation in the ditch ahead of us, he swipes and smackes at the roadside weeds, clearing a path for us to navigate safely out. He exits the ditch first, holding a hand out for me to grab onto in order to get out myself.

I ignore him, brushing his hand away as I get out of the ditch myself. We start to cross the wet roadway, the icy rain beating down on us, when the blackness starts to wash over me again, and I stumble, going to the pavement hard on my hands and knees. A jolt of white-hot pain lances through me and I shudder, as a wave of nausea roils in my stomach, and I swallow hard, willing my stomach to stay where it's at. My heart hammers wildly in my chest, increasing the jungle drum tattoo pounding away in my head to a foxtrot tempo. I tilt my head up to the sky once more, letting the rain wash across my face, cooling me.

"Pete!" Reed says, his voice sharp with concern. "Are you alright?" He puts a hand on my back. "You don't look very good."

"I'm fine," I hiss, gritting my teeth. "I just lost my footing and stumbled, that's all."

"Let me help you up," he says, grabbing me by the arm.

"No, I can DO it myself," I grumble in protest, but I allow myself to be hauled to my feet with his assistance.

"Are you always this damned stubborn?" he asks.

"Do I really hafta answer that for you, partner?" I ask as I start to hobble across the roadway once more.

"No, I've worked with you for long enough, so I can answer that myself," he grumps, limping along next to me. "There's the other car," he says, pointing to the still-glowing taillights of the car we hit. "Hey!" he yells as we approach the vehicle. "In the car! You okay?" He is answered by a low moan that quickly slides into a shrill scream, the sound raising the hackles on both our necks.

The car, a little blue Corvette, rests with its nose up in the air, V'd into a telephone pole. The hood has nearly shattered from impact, steam escapes from the busted radiator, and the dying engine ticks and groans forlornly. As we hurry around to the driver's side, glass from the windshield and the headlights crunches under our feet. Reed takes the driver's side while I take the passenger side, and the two of us tug on the doors to check on the occupants inside.

A young woman, in her mid-twenties, with long dark hair and a frightened expression peers up at me as I yank on her door. Blood streams down her from a gash on her forehead, just above her eye. She presses her palms against the window. "Please help me!" she yells through the glass. "I'm in labor!"

I pause a second to exchange a startled glance with Reed over the top of the car. "Did she say she was in LABOR?" Reed asks in shock.

I don't answer him as I give her door one mighty yank. I'm relieved when the door pops open with a creaking protest. I kneel down next to her. "Did you say you were in labor?" I ask, as a jolt of adrenaline rushes through me, galvanizing me, spurring my brain into action.

"Yes," she says, panic in her voice. She rubs her hands across her flowered dress, fingers caressing her bulging tummy protectively. "I'm in labor! We were on our way to the hospital when we got into the accident!" Heavy perspiration beads her forehead, and her hair is damp with sweat. "Please help me!" she begs.

Reed has popped the door open on his side, leaning in to check on the driver. "Pete," he says, nodding his head at me. The two of us stand up, our gazes meeting once more over the top of the car. "He's an F," he says in a low tone so the girl won't hear. "Looks like a broken neck." He makes his way around to my side of the car.

I kneel back down next to the frightened girl. "How far apart are the contractions, do you know?" I ask her.

"They're coming every…aaaahhhHHHHHHH!" she screams, doubling over and clutching at her abdomen. "Every five minutes. I've been timing them with my watch." she pants. She throws her head back against the seat, eyes closed. "Oh my God, I'm so scared!" she says fearfully. "This is my first baby and I'm not sure what to expect."

"Are you hurt anywhere else?" I ask. "Like your legs or your back or your neck?"

"No, not that I know of," she says. "Please, what am I gonna do?" she begs. "I can't have my baby in this car!"

"No, you're not," I tell her. "Just relax a moment for me, okay?" I pat her shoulder with a reassurance I don't feel myself. "Have you taken any of those childbirth classes, you know, the ones that teach you how to breathe?"

"Lamaze, Pete," Reed supplies, standing and peering in at the girl from over my shoulder. "The classes are called Lamaze."

"Yes, I've had them," the girl says. "And I'm trying to use the breathing lessons I was taught, but it's pretty hard, sitting cramped up in this stupid car." She looks at me, dark eyes filled with pain meeting mine. "Please tell me that there's an ambulance on the way, Officer. I don't want to have my baby out here in the open like this."

I hesitate, trying to decide whether to bold-face lie to her or tell her the God-awful truth, that there is no ambulance en route, and the chance of her delivering her child in the sterile environment of a hospital is very unlikely. I look to Reed for guidance, finding none in his frowning, worried face, so I take a deep breath, darts of pain lancing through my ribs, and tell her the truth. "No, Miss, there's no ambulance on the way."

She looks at us in wide-eyed horror. "But you're police officers, right? You were dispatched out here on this accident, right?" Her voice is shrill with panic.

"No, Miss. We were the other car involved in the wreck," I tell her. "Our radio was knocked out of commission during the crash, and we've not been able to call for help."

"Oh my God," she sobs, leaning forward over her stomach. "I can't believe this is happening to me. I just can't." She leans back in the seat, hand over her eyes.

"Take it easy, Miss," Reed tells her. "We're going to do all that we can for you and your baby, okay?"

I look up at him. "Jim, I need you to get back to the squad car and see if you can get into the trunk and get the flares out. Get them set up on the roadway. I think there's a blanket back there, too, grab it if there is. We'll need to see if we can find a better place to put Miss…Miss…"

"Andrews," she says, still crying. "Sharon Andrews." Her face squinches up suddenly and she moans, the moan rising to a scream once more. "The contractions are starting to come faster," she pants.

"Go!" I order Reed, but he's already off and running, limping as fast as he can across the roadway.

He sees the lights of the oncoming car at the same time I do, and he shines his flashlight at it, waving frantically at the driver. As the driver slows to a stop, Reed leans in the open window and speaks. "I need you to go call for help!" he orders the driver. "Get ahold of LAPD dispatch and tell them that unit One-Adam-12 has been in a wreck on Milner Road, about a mile west of Las Palmas Avenue. We need at least two ambulances out here, along with medical personnel. We've got a woman in labor. Tell 'em to step on it!" He backs away from the car and it speeds off down the roadway. "They're going for help!" he yells to me, then he turns and starts through the underbrush in the ditch where Adam-12 has ended up.

"Did you hear that, Miss Andrews?" I ask, giving her shoulder a squeeze. "My partner flagged down a passing motorist and they're going for help. So just stay calm for me…"

"Stay calm? STAY CALM?" she asks, her voice rising in a shrill nervous crescendo. "It's easy for YOU to tell ME to stay calm, YOU'RE not the one who's about to give birth in the great outdoors, Mister!"

"Pete," I tell her. "My name is Pete Malloy. My partner's name is Jim Reed."

"Sharon Andrews," she repeats, holding a shaking hand out to mine. "But I guess I already told you that, didn't I?" she laughs, a slight edge of hysteria in her voice.

"Is that your husband?" I ask, nodding over at the deceased man. I keep her hand in mine, her palm sweating in my grip.

"No, that's a friend of ours, Mark Staley," she says. "My husband's overseas in the Air Force. He's stationed in Okinawa…oh God, here comes another one…" she moans, leaning forward, screaming as she clenches my hand as tightly as she can. I'm afraid that my fingers will break in her death grasp, and I try not to wince. She falls back into the seat, limp and panting. "Lemme tell ya," she says, rubbing at the sweat and blood on her forehead. "Lamaze does NOT work that well in this situation." She releases my hand. "Sorry if I nearly broke your fingers, Officer. I'm just so scared!"

"They're not broken," I assure her, flexing my fingers to assure myself. "Please, call me Pete," I tell her. "And you don't have anything to worry about, trust me. I've been through this before."

"You've got kids of your own?" she asks.

"No, I'm not married," I tell her. "But I've had to deliver a baby before, so I'm fairly familiar with the routine." I stand up to see if I can spot Reed returning with the blanket. When I stand, black dots dance in front of my eyes and I suddenly feel a little lightheaded, so I tilt my face upwards once more, letting the rain hit me and bring me back to my senses. I rest my head against the top of the Corvette, the cool surface feeling soothing against my fevered skin. I close my eyes for a moment, trying to draw in a deep breath around the darts of pain in my ribs. Tears spring to my eyes with the effort, and I half-cough, half-sob. I jerk my eyes open, searching for my partner. I spot him coming out of the underbrush, flares in his hands, along with the blanket.

"Are you alright, Pete?" she asks, peering up at me anxiously. "You look a little wobbly."

"I'm okay, don't worry about it," I assure her. "I just got a bit of a head rush when I stood up." I glance across the roadway to see Reed laying a pattern of flares down, the he hurries back to us, limping.

"The motorist I flagged down is going for help," he pants. He rubs at his knee with his hand. "I've got the flares laid down to guide the ambulance and paramedics in." He gestures to the east of us. "There's a bus shelter about 10 yards from here on this side of the road. It's not much, but it's partially enclosed with a roof and sides, so it should provide some shelter."

"Wait a second, I'm not giving birth in a ahhhhhaaaaYIIIIIIEEEEEE!" Sharon screams, in the throes of another contraction. "Stupid bus shelter," she pants.

"I don't think you have much choice, Sharon, I'm sorry," I say, glancing at my watch. "The contractions are coming every three minutes or so."

"I can pick her up and carry her to the bus stop if you'll light the way," Reed says. "And don't argue with me, you're not in any shape to be carrying anyone, Pete." He thrusts the blanket and his flashlight at me. "Okay, Miss Andrews," he says, bending forward and sliding one arm under her knees, while he slips the other one behind her back. "You're sure you're not hurt anywhere else, like your legs or back, right?"

"Right," she moans. "And please, call me Sharon. After all, you two will be seeing a part of me that only my mother, my husband, and my obstetrician has seen before."

"Okay, then," Reed says. "Upsy-daisy." He carefully lifts her out of the car. "Are you doing alright?" he asks as he balances her small body in his arms.

"Yes, I'm fine," she says, putting an arm around his neck and gripping his coat collar firmly in her hand. "Please, just get me out of the rain." She rests her head against his chest, her other hand gripping his upper arm. "Do you have children, Jim?" she asks him.

"My wife and I have a six-month-old son, Jimmy Jr.," Reed tells her proudly.

"Oh, that's what my husband and I want, is a little boy," she says. "But we'd be just as happy with a little girl, too."

I walk alongside Jim, ready to step in and catch her if he should stumble. The beams of the two flashlights I hold picks out the bus shelter a few yards ahead of us.

"I can't believe this," she says, her voice muffled against his chest. "Me having a baby out in the middle of nowhere, in a bus shelter, to boot!" She giggles a little. "Stupid, huh? Sounds like something out of a soap opera."

"Well, Mary gave birth to Jesus in a manger, so it's been done before," Reed tells her.

"Yeah, but I'll be damned if I'm naming my kid Jesus Christ," she says. "Oh God, here comes another!" she groans, her groan sliding into a scream once more as she clutches Jim's arm and shoulder tightly in her fists. I see him wince with pain, but he doesn't drop her.

The bus shelter is really nothing more than a long bench enclosed in sturdy, clear Plexiglass on three sides and the roof. The bench and the shelter's Plexiglass walls are set in cement, and it's that that I lay the blanket down on, smoothing it out so Reed can carefully lay Sharon down. He places her so that she's protected from the sleety rain and the wind the most by the Plexiglass, while he and I are exposed to the elements. Luckily, the wind isn't blowing the rain from the direction the bus shelter faces, so we manage to stay pretty safe from the rain and the icy wind.

"I'll stay behind her and support her back," he says, dropping to his knees. He shoots me a small grin, knowing that he's just administer the coup de grace, of sticking me with the duty of bringing Sharon's baby into the world.

"Thanks," she says gratefully, reclining back against him. "I'm just damned glad to get out of that car. My back was killing me, sitting all crushed up like that."

"Uh…okay," I stammer hastily. I drop to my knees at her feet. "So that…um…that leaves me with the business end of it."

"You said you'd done it before, Pete," Reed says, almost gleefully. "Don't worry, Sharon, Pete's an expert when it comes to birthing babies. He's delivered them before, including a set of twins." He pats her reassuringly.

"Oh, isn't that…aaaaaYYAAAAHHHHH!" she shrieks, doubling over in another contraction. "Oh God, just kill me now please," she pants.

I gather up all my bravado and courage, shooting Reed a glare.  _C'mon, Pete, helping birth a child, why it's just like riding a bicycle!_ I assure myself.  _Except there ain't exactly any training wheels here…_  I close my eyes briefly, and in a flash, my training and my experiences come flooding back to me, drowning out the pounding in my skull and the ache across my ribs.  _I can do this_ , I tell myself. "Okay, let's just see what's going on down here, okay?" I chirp too brightly. Inwardly grimacing, I gently lift the hem of her flowered skirt, pushing it past her knees and exposing her underwear-clad rump. "Uh…those panties are gonna hafta come off," I mutter, turning a hundred shades of red.

"Just pull them off," she instructs me. "I'm not gonna be embarassed, I assure you. I'm WAY beyond that by now. I just wanna get this eighty-pound watermelon outta me, okay?"

"Um…okay," I say, wincing as I grab the edges of her panties in my fingers, tugging them downward. "Maybe YOU'RE not embarassed but I sure as hell am."

"You shouldn't be," Reed jibes. "You're a bachelor, Pete. It's not like you haven't seen that kind of uh…equipment before. You should be fairly familiar with it."

"I just haven't seen it in quite THIS manner," I growl. "At least not too often." I position the two flashlights so they're shining on Sharon. She is fully dilated. "Okay, on the next contraction, I want you to start pushing," I tell her.

"Okay," she says, gritting her teeth. Her dark eyes glimmer as pain flashes across her face, and she thrashes in the throes of another contraction, bearing down as it hits. "Oh God," she sobs, tears and sweat streaming down her face. "If childbirth is this bad each time, this kid is gonna be an only child."

"Relax, you're doing fine," I assure her.

"Pete, we don't have anything to wrap the baby in once it's born," Reed says.

"I'll use my coat," I say, quickly stripping it off. I lay it across the bench in the shelter.

"Mark," Sharon says, her voice hoarse from screaming. "He's dead, isn't he? My friend in the car…he's dead, isn't he?" Her frightened eyes dare me to lie to her.

I exchange a glance with Reed, then I answer. "Yes, I'm sorry, but he is."

"Oh God, poor Mark," she moans. "He was only trying to help me get to the hospital on time."

The wind outside suddenly shifts direction, slinging the sleety rain in through the bus shelter entrance, stinging my face with its sharp iciness. I swipe a forearm across my face, breaking open the cut on my head once more, warm blood trickling down my temple.

_O holy night…the stars are brightly shining…_ a faint whisper sings in my ear.  _It is the night of the dear Savior's birth…_

I shake my head to clear it, starting the kettle drums pounding once more in my brain. "Okay," I say, ignoring the voice and the drums. "The baby's head is starting to crown. On the next contraction, I want you to bear down and push as hard as you can, alright, Sharon?" I ask.

"Yes," she says. Biting her lip as another contraction hits, she bears down hard, screaming, clinging to Jim like he's her lifeline, nearly pulling him over on top of her in her tight clutches.

"Push again on the next one," I order her, and she does, the baby's head sliding forward.

_Long lay the world in sin and error pining, till he appeared and the soul felt its worth…_ the voice sings softly in my ear.

I shake my head again, drawing in a ragged breath, pain searing across my chest. I close my eyes in a wince, then open them. "Another push, you're almost there, Sharon," I tell her. Screaming once more, her voice now nearly gone, she bears down again, the baby's head sliding free of the birth canal.

_A thrill of hope, the weary soul rejoices, for yonder breaks a new and glorious morn…_ the sweet soprano trills gently, the haunting voice seemingly coming from all around me.

A fleeting wave of dizziness washes over me as I cup my hands around the baby's head. I fight it back, willing myself to focus on the task at hand: bringing a new life into the world. I draw in another ragged breath, the throbbing in my head and my ribs fierce enough to make me want to cry. The icy rain slashes in at me, stinging my face with its fury. "He's almost out, Sharon, so on the next contraction, push as hard as you can, for as long as you can, okay?"

"Okay," she rasps, and when the next pain hits, she bears down as hard as she can, pushing with all her might, as her baby slips free from her body, sliding gently into my waiting hands.

"He's out!" I say, relief flooding my veins. "It's a boy, Sharon, it's a boy!" I tell her happily. But my relief and happiness quickly turns to fear as I realize that the tiny baby isn't breathing, his skin tone a rather pale shade of blue.

"A boy," she sobs, sagging back against Jim's legs. "I have a baby boy."

"Congratulations, Sharon," Reed tells her, gently smoothing a strand of sweaty hair off of her face. "Now that wasn't so bad, was it?"

"Why isn't he crying, Pete?" Sharon asks worriedly.

I catch Jim's concerned look, but I don't say anything as I carefully flip the baby over onto his stomach in my hands, balancing his tiny, still body on my one palm, while I deliver a slap to his butt. That doesn't draw any response, so I flip him back over, taking my finger and gently running around the inside of his mouth, clearing away the mucous inside.  _C'mon, baby, breathe for me,_ I think. I take another swipe around his mouth once more with my finger, then I flip him back over, smacking his butt again, a little bit harder this time.  _Come on, little boy, breathe, please! You've come this far, so take the final step and awaken to the new world around you._ He squeaks, sputtering fitfully, then he breaks into a lusty wail, his tiny face screwing up like a shrunken turnip, his wee fists beating the air in frustration. "He's breathing now," I say, weak with relief, as his color rapidly pinkens up. I quickly count his fingers and toes. "He's got all ten fingers and toes," I say, pride sweeping over me. "He's a beautiful little boy, Sharon." I look up from him, my misty eyes meeting Sharon's. Emotion swells up in my throat, a combination of happiness and awe, along with the relief that the job of delivering her baby is finally over with.

She leans back against Reed, closing her eyes. "Thank God," she sobs. "Thank God."

"Good job, Pete," Reed says, voice choked with emotion. Tears glisten in his eyes. "Good job."

I pull my jacket off of the bench, gazing down at the squalling infant in my arms. "Yeah," I say, my own voice hushed and choked, tears threatening to spill from my own eyes. I carefully wrap my coat around him, tucking it in so that he's warm, and I gently place him into Sharon's waiting arms. In the distance, I hear the sound of sirens.

"Thank you, Pete," she weeps, caressing his tiny cheek with her finger. "Thank you so much." She looks up at Jim gratefully. "You too, Jim. Thank you. Without you two, I don't know what I would've done."

"It's okay," Jim tells her. "I'm just glad Pete and I were here to help out." He looks across to me. "Right, Pete?"

"Yeah, right," I tell him, sagging heavily back against the bench. Dizziness hits me again, sending the world swimming before me in a sickening whirl. I wipe at the sweat that breaks out on my forehead with my shirtsleeve. The darts of pain in my ribs turn into sharp-edged double-bladed knife thrusts, and the jungle drum tattoo in my head reaches a crescendo, as a buzzing sensation begins at the base of my skull. Blackness creeps in around the edges of my vision. "It's not a problem," I say, my voice sounding thick. I rest my head on my forearm on the bench. "I'm just glad I…" My voice trails off, as the wailing sirens draw closer, drowning out the wails of the newborn baby.

"Pete!" Jim says sharply. "What's wrong?"

I wave a shaky hand at him, the weight of lifting my arm nearly too much for me to handle. "'M fine," I mutter. "Jus' a li'l tired…" My voice trails off again.

"PETE!" Jim is suddenly at my side, shaking me. "Stay with me, Pete, okay?"

"Go 'way," I mumble, my tongue having a hard time forming the words. I push at him weakly. "'M fine, Jim."

"You are NOT fine, Pete!" he says, slapping me lightly on the right cheek. "C'mon, stay with me, buddy! Don't go to sleep on me!" He shakes me harder. "Pete, don't you dare go to sleep!"

"I'm not," I say, tilting my head back, letting the icy rain slash at my face. Blackness skitters before me, and I try to breathe, but can't. "C-C-Can't breathe," I half-choke, half-sob in a stutter. Sudden fright overwhelms me, and I lean forward into Jim, clutching at his shirt with my fists. "Can't breathe, Jim," I weep in fear, tears flowing from my eyes, mixing with the rain pelting me in the face.

"Pete, hold on, help's coming!" Reed urges me desperately, gripping my shoulders tightly. "But you hafta stay with me, okay?"

I don't answer him, though, as a blinding flash of white suddenly envelopes me, and I hear the sweet soprano singing once more. Her voice is as clear as a bell, as pure as an angel's, and I briefly wonder if this is the Heavenly Chorus sent to herald me through the Pearly Gates.

_O holy night, the stars are brightly shining;_

_It is the night of the dear Savior's birth._

_Long lay the world, in sin and error pining,_

_Till he appeared and the soul felt its worth._

_A thrill of hope, the weary soul rejoices,_

_For yonder breaks a new and glorious morn._

_Fall on your knees,_

_Oh, hear the angels voices!_

_O night divine,_

_O night when Christ was born!_

_O night, O holy night,_

_O night divine!_

I am swept away once more by the wave of blackness that gently tugs and pulls at me, urging me to swim into its inviting pool. I try to fight it, but I'm no match for it. It easily engulfs me, swallowing me up entirely in a soft soothing blanket.

And then I hear nothing more.

 


	7. Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **ALL ORIGINAL CONTENT OF THIS STORY IS THE SOLE PROPERTY OF BAMBOOZLEPIG AND MAY NOT BE USED WITHOUT PERMISSION.** In order to enhance the overall plot experience, creative liberties may have been intentionally taken with the real-life protocols depicted herein.

_HAVE YOURSELF A MERRY LITTLE CHRISTMAS_

"…copy, Rampart? We have on board a male patient, approximately 33 years old, who was involved in a motor vehicle accident this evening. Patient was the unrestrained driver of a vehicle that collided nearly head-on with another vehicle at about 45 miles per hour and then rolled once, coming to rest on its wheels. Patient's partner relates an approximate minute to a minute-and-a-half loss of consciousness immediately following the crash…"

_Faith is what gets us through the bad times. It's there when we need it, Pete, even if it's hidden away sometimes._

_Look, I lost my faith a looong time ago. And once lost, it's pretty hard to find again._

_But what will you depend on when you need it the most? When you need your faith to guide you through a crisis?_

_I'll depend on the same thing I've always depended on: myself._

"…has about a three-inch laceration on his forehead just above the right eye. Patient's pupils are equal, but somewhat slow to react to the light. Patient was unconscious upon our arrival, but is conscious, alert, and oriented for us now…"

_Will Santa Claus find us at McLaren Hall?_

_He'll find you wherever you are, even at McLaren Hall._

"…complains of a severe headache and nausea, along with rib pain on both sides, and pain in the area of the left hip and the right knee. Patient has vomited twice, once prior to our arrival, and once just before we departed the scene. We find no evidence of blood in the emesis. Skin is cool and clammy to the touch, and patient relates he was exposed to the elements for an unknown length of time this evening after the car accident. Vitals are…"

_What is with you anyway? Are you being some sort of Scrooge or Grinch this year?_

_No, I'm just not in the Christmas spirit this year, Reed._

"...abdomen was soft and tender by palpation, with no rigidity or guarding noted. Lung sounds are equal and clear bilaterally. He is hooked up to the monitor and is currently showing a normal sinus rhythm of…"

_She looks like an angel lying there._

_A fallen angel._

"…IV of D5W started, running TKO, per orders of the nurse on board. We have not administered anything for the pain or the nausea. We do not note any other injuries to this patient, other than the laceration to the head. He is resting comfortably on our cot right now. We have about a five-minute ETA to your location, Rampart…"

_What you need is a good old-fashioned Christmas miracle to bring you out of your funk._

_I don't believe in miracles._

"…Ten-four, Rampart. No further orders at this time. LA Rescue 45 out…"

… _believe in miracles…I don't believe in miracles…I don't…believe…in…miracles…_

Wearily, I turn my head to the side of the cot and close my eyes.

* * *

"I honestly don't think I need to stay in the hospital overnight," I grumble, as Sherry, a pretty brunette nurse with a perky smile, Bambi-brown eyes, and dimples to rival Shirley Temple's, helps me into a gown.

"And I honestly think you do," she retorts, flashing her dimples and smiling winningly at me. "You have a concussion, Officer Malloy, and that warrants an overnight stay in our finest accomodations."

"Finest accomodations my butt," I tell her grumpily. "Your mandatory dress code for patient wear leaves much to be desired."

"Oh, you mean you don't like flashing that cute little tushy of yours around?" she asks wryly. She shakes her head, clucking her tongue, as she eyeballs said cute little tushy rather avidly. "It's too bad, too. Such an adorable one."

"Uh…er…um…" I stammer, as even my toenails turn crimson from embarassment. "My 'tushy' has never been…um…described in quite THAT manner," I say. "But no, I don't appreciate the rear vent air conditioning provided by these stunning gowns."

"Well," she says brightly. "Tell you what. Let's get you settled into bed and then your cute little tushy won't BE air conditioned, alright, Officer Malloy?"

"No, I've got a better idea," I tell her. "How about you just let me take my…uh…tushy home?"

She wags a naughty-naughty finger at me. "Now you know as well as I do that Dr. Brackett insisted on keeping you here for at least a 12-hour observation. And we must follow our doctor's orders, musn't we?"

"No, we musn't," I gripe as she helps me into bed. I shoot her as indignant of a look I can muster with my ass cheeks waving hello in the breeze. "I can do this by myself, you know."

"Oh, come now, Officer Malloy," she says, plumping the pillow and placing it behind my head. "Any other man would just jump at the chance to be waited on hand and foot."

"I'm not any other man,"I say, watching as she strings the IV lines carefully across the rails so that they won't get tangled up. "While I'm sure it's a great delight to be waited on hand and foot by such a pretty gal as yourself, it's not as much fun when it's in a hospital setting. And please, stop calling me Officer Malloy. My name is Pete."

"I thought most men had at least ONE naughty nursie fantasy," she says, giggling rather delightfully.

"Uh-huh, not me," I reply. "I equate hospitals with needles, pain, and being sick, not naughty nursies." Leaning back on the bed, I give her rather nice figure a bit of a once-over…hey, I've only got a concussion from the wreck, I wasn't blinded. "Of course, if I WOULD happen to have a naughty nursie fantasy…" I say in appreciative admiration, giving her a smile.

She blushes and giggles some more. "You have got the nicest smile, Officer Malloy. Your whole face just lights up with happiness and those pretty green eyes of yours just twinkle. I'll bet you're girlfriend adores you. I know I would."

"Um…I'm presently unattached right now," I say. "And please, call me Pete. 'Officer Malloy' sounds so formal, coming from someone who's seen my butt cheeks flapping in the breeze."

"Well," she says brightly, tucking the blankets in around me. "My name is Sherry and I'm your nurse for tonight." She picks up the call button and clips it to the pillowcase. "There's your call button, Pete. If you need anything at all, you just push that little red button, and I'll come running, okay?" she says, giving me a chipper smile. "Now, is there anything I can do for you?"

"Let me go home?" I ask hopefully. "Just give me my clothes back and I'll sign myself out. I'll take the heat for you."

She sighs sadly, shaking her head. "As much as I'd like to, Pete, you know that I can't. A concussion can be dangerous. If I let you sign yourself out against doctor's orders, you could go home and have a seizure and die. Not only would I likely lose my license, but I'd also never forgive myself for allowing something like that to happen to such a cute little tushy."

"Fine," I sigh. "I'll quit asking to go home on one condition."

"Name it, Pete," she says, flashing those dimples, her brown eyes sparkling.

"Would you PLEASE stop calling my butt a 'cute little tushy'?" I ask.

"Who's got a cute little tushy?" Reed asks, knocking on the door and then walking into my room. He's got a couple of paper bags in his hand, plus the present he bought for Jimmy earlier at Higbee's Toy Store. He sets them down on an empty chair.

"Your partner here," she says as she points to me. She grins and winks at Jim.

"Huh," he says, cocking his head, his eyes dancing with merriment as a smile curls around his lips. "I'll have to take your word on that, Nurse," he says. He's changed out of his soaking wet uniform and into a pair of green surgical scrubs provided by the hospital.

"Hey, how come he gets to wear scrubs and I hafta wear a gown that allows my ass to go alfresco?" I ask with dismay.

"Because HE'S going home in a bit," Sherry tells me. "He needs something to wear outside."

"Besides," he adds, grinning devilishly. "My tushy isn't as cute as yours, Pete. Nobody but Jean wants to see it alfresco."

"I hope you know you've likely ruined a very promising police partnership, not to mention my reputation," I tell Sherry archly. "With those remarks about my hindquarters."

"I'm sure your reputation will be just fine, Pete," Sherry tells me, giggling. "If anything, it's likely to enhance it."

"Especially with the ladies," Reed adds. "When word spreads about your cute little tushy, you'll have 'em lined up at your door, just waiting to see if it's true, Pete."

"You know, a coma would be nice right about now," I gripe, slinking under the covers.

"Is it okay if I stay with Pete for a little while?" Jim asks.

"Well, visiting hours are over but if I said no, I have a feeling that the two of you would figure out a way to bypass the rules anyway, so it's fine, as long as you don't tire him out," she says. She pats my arm. "Now then, is there anything I can get you before I go check on my other patients?" she asks.

"No, I'm fine," I tell her. "Thanks, though."

"If you need anything, you just call me, okay?" she asks as she walks towards the door, allowing me to appreciate the rear view as much as I have the front view. "And I'll come running, I promise." She gives me a saucy smile and a sly wink as she leaves.

"You dirty old man," Reed laughs after she leaves. He pulls one of the other chairs close to the bedside and sits down. "I saw the look on your face as she was leaving."

"I'm injured, Jim, not dead," I tell him.

"Hmm, your witty repartee is lacking," he says.

"It's hard to come up with a really snappy little remark when it feels like your head is going to go nuclear," I reply.

"Yeah, how are you feeling?" he asks. "For someone with a concussion, four cracked ribs, a bruised hip AND a bruised kneecap? Not to mention a lovely set of stitches in your forehead."

"Like World War Three is going on inside my head," I tell him, wincing. "And Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers have tap-danced across my ribcage in cement tap shoes. Other than that, I'm fine." I pick at the blanket a bit sheepishly. "By the way, sorry I threw up on you in the bus shelter."

He shrugs. "Eh, what's a little puke between friends?" he asks. "I can always burn that uniform."

"What about you?" I ask. "How are you feeling?"

"I've got a sore nose and a sore kneecap, that's all," he says. "Nothing more serious than that. My nose wasn't even broken, unlike your head."

"And that's why YOU get to go home tonight, unlike me," I mope. "How's the mother and her baby doing?"

"They're doing fine," he says. "They've been admitted to the hospital here."

"I tried to get Mac to tell me how they were when I was still down in the ER, but he wouldn't," I say. "He was too busy fussing around me."

Reed stares at me for a moment, a bit incredulous. "Pete, he had good reason to fuss around you. You were still unconscious when he arrived at the accident scene. Your eyes were rolled back in your head and you were really pale and still. For a moment, I was afraid you'd quit breathing." He looks down at his hands, a very serious expression on his face. He bites his lip. "I honestly thought you were dead, Pete, for a few minutes, at least. You really had me scared."

"Sorry, Junior, I didn't mean to scare you. I was just trying to see if you were paying attention," I joke. The joke falls flat, as Reed stares at the floor. We sit for a minute in uncomfortable silence. "Did Mac go ahead and leave?" I ask, breaking the silence.

"Yeah, he did," he says. "He also sent the others home, too."

"Wait a second, what others?" I ask, frowning. "I don't remember anyone other than the doctors and the nurses, plus Mac being in my room in the ER," I say.

"Pete," he says, fixing me with an odd look. "Nearly everyone from our watch was in the ER waiting room at one time or another, waiting for word on your condition. Wells and Brinkman stopped by on their way home, and so did Walters and Russo. Woods and Sanchez stopped in right after they came on duty overnight." He shrugs. "Hell, even Shaaron Claridge called to see how you were doing. She's the one who took the initial call for help. And I've been keeping Jean informed of what's been going on, too. "

"Oh," I say, surprised at the show of concern for my welfare. "Why? I mean, it wasn't like I was near death's door or anything. It was just a simple concussion, that's all."

"Pete," he says. "I could give you a buncha crap about the thin blue line, yadda yadda yadda, but the straight fact of the matter is that you've got friends in the department who care about you and who worry about you when you get hurt."

"Yeah, I guess," I say, in a somewhat unbelieving tone of voice.

"Plus, they're all pretty amazed that you managed to deliver a baby in the middle of a storm, in a bus shelter, on Christmas Eve, with a concussion, no less," he says.

"I had help," I say.

"Yeah, from someone above," he says.

"No, from you," I say. "Of course, the mother did most of the work. I was just a catcher, basically."

"But wouldn't you say that what happened out there is nothing short of a miracle?" he asks. "I mean, it's amazing that we were able to walk away from a bad car crash with only a few minor injuries. And then there's the whole baby thing, to boot." He shakes his head. "If those weren't a couple of true-blue miracles, I don't know what was."

"Don't get started on miracles, Jim," I say tiredly. "I'm not in the mood to hear about that right now."

"Eh…yeah, I forgot," he says dryly. "You don't believe in stuff like that." He falls quiet for a second, sending us into another uncomfortable silence. Then he clears his throat and speaks. "Anyway, Mac went ahead and took our gear back to the station for us, including your gunbelt. I'll get it and put it in your locker for you when I go in on Tuesday."

"Oh," I say. "Thanks." I nod at the gaily wrapped present. "I see he rescued your present for you, so you can still give it to Jimmy for Christmas." I look at the clock hanging on the wall across from my bed. "Which it already is," I say. "Christmas, I mean."

"Huh?" he asks, glancing over at the gift. "Oh, yeah. I had him grab the present when he grabbed our gear from the trunk of the car before they towed it."

"How badly damaged is the car?" I ask.

"Totaled," he says. "You don't remember any of the wreck yet?"

I shake my head, and instantly regret it, since it starts the jungle drums pounding once more, albeit a bit more mellower this time, with a shot of morphine coursing through my bloodstream. "No," I say, running a weary hand through my hair. I accidentally bump the bandage covering the cut over my eye, causing the stitches placed there to start throbbing. "It's like I told Mac, the last few hours have been kind of a blur for me. I remember bits and pieces, but not the whole jigsaw puzzle itself."

"What DO you remember?" he asks with curiosity. "Maybe I can fill in a few of the missing pieces for you."

I frown, thinking. Images and memories dance around in my aching brain like a pair of caffeinated jitterbuggers. "We were headed to the barn," I say after a minute. "We were on the straightaway, when the oncoming car skidded in front of us. I remember trying to take evasive action to avoid the crash, but we hit anyway. The last thing I recall is the sound of metal crunching and glass breaking. That's it."

"You don't remember the car rolling?" he asks. "I think that's when you hit the windshield."

"Nope." I study him for a second. "Do YOU remember all of it?" I ask, slightly accusatory.

"Yeah, most of it, anyway," he says, nodding. "We hit, like you said, even though you tried like hell to avoid it. We spun completely around and ended up sitting sideways on the edge of the ditch. We hung there for a second, then the car rolled once, landing back on its wheels." He looks at me, studying me intently. "You do remember the rest, don't you?" he asks. "I mean, us getting out of the car and finding the pregnant woman in labor in the other car, then helping her with the birth of her baby in the bus shelter? Do you remember all that?"

"I remember that just fine," I say. "In fact, I remember all of it, up until I passed out. And when I came to, a paramedic was trying to start an IV on me." I hold my arm up, where a nice little bruise has formed around the vein in the crook of my left arm. "And this is what happens when hose jockeys try to be doctors," I say, pointing to it.

"Pete, they're trained paramedics," he says, shaking his head.

"Trained in what?" I ask. "Torture?" I narrow my eyes. "And if they're so trained, why do they have nurses riding around with them to okay their every move?"

"Because the legislation hasn't passed yet, allowing them to operate independently of direct supervision of a doctor or nurse," he says.

"Maybe there's a reason why," I grump.

"Still, you didn't hafta yell at him, Pete," he says. "He was only trying to do his job."

"I didn't yell at him, I merely asked him what he was doing," I reply sniffily.

"Yeah, you MIGHT think that yourself," he says. "But what I heard was you asking him if he thought you were a human pincushion, and NOT in a nice tone of voice, either."

"Hey, I'm the first to admit, I make an extremely lousy patient," I say. "But in my defense, he was trying to stick a needle the size of the Eiffel Tower in my arm."

He sighs, rolling his eyes. "It had to be a larger needle, Pete, they needed to get fluids going in you right away. And you're right, you do make a lousy patient. You were still being kind of an ass when they got you into the ER. It wasn't until they gave you that little shot of morphine for your pain, plus the Compazine to keep you from puking, that you finally mellowed out."

"They kept poking and prodding at me," I snap. "And with all of the freakin' x-rays they took of me, I'll be surprised if I don't glow in the dark."

"Yes," he says. "Wouldn't THAT be a neat trick?"

I give him a sour look. "Not really," I tell him. "It would be rather off-putting in the romance department. I don't imagine that women would find a guy that can function both as a boyfriend AND a nightlight all that attractive."

"Yeah, I guess," he says, but his usual humor is dampened down from fatigue and stress. We fall into another uncomfortable silence, then he speaks. "You know, I think that's the first time since I've started working with you that I've ever seen you really scared, Pete. You had this look of fear on your face, right before the car rolled."

"I wasn't scared, Reed," I scoff. "Stunned is more like it."

"Yeah, maybe," he says, but by his tone I can tell he doesn't believe me.

"Look, Reed, not much scares me, okay?" I say defensively. "I've faced down a LOT of bad shit in my life, so one little car wreck isn't going to bother me, you got it?"

"If nothing scares you, Pete, then why are you so scared to tell me what's going on with you tonight?" he asks quietly.

I'm rather blindsided by the blunt honesty in his question. I look at the blanket, picking at it nervously with my fingers. "I'm not…it's not…I'm…" I take in as deep a breath as my sore ribs will allow. "I just don't think it's anyone's business but my own, that's all."

"Mac knows," Reed says, and in his voice, I hear the complete misery of someone who has been sorely excluded from a really good inside joke made by the popular crowd. "He said you were taking some time off when you get kicked free from here tomorrow. He said you were going home to Seattle for awhile."

"Yeah, I am," I say.

"Oh," he says, eyes fixed on his hands as he twists his wedding band around his finger. "When do you leave?" he asks.

"I'm gonna try to get a flight out tomorrow, if I can," I say.

"How long you gonna be gone?" he asks, still not looking at me.

I shrug. "Dunno. Hopefully not more than a few days. A week at the most."

"Oh," he says again. "Do you want me to give Mac the key to your apartment so he can get your mail for you while you're gone?" he asks, still sounding very hurt.

With a start, I suddenly realize that Jim Reed harbors just a little bit of jealousy towards Mac, for being friends with me longer than Jim has. It would be laughable, if only he didn't look so downcast and utterly miserable. "Why would I want you to do that?" I ask. "If you're willing to get my mail in for me, I'd really appreciate it."

"Yeah, okay," he says, still woeful-looking. "I guess."

"Look, Jim," I say, hoping to ease the dejected expression on his face. "All Mac knows is that I'm going home on an urgent family matter. That's it. I haven't told him anything as to why."

"Oh," he says. He waits to see if I'm going to continue, and let him in on my secrets, but when I don't, he stands up. "Well, I'm gonna head home," he says. "I've gotta call a cab to come get me. I didn't want Jean driving this late at night." He grabs the two brown grocery bags. "I've got your uniform in here, along with your badge and shooting brass. The only thing I don't have is your coat. Mac's going to take it and get it drycleaned for you. I'll get your uniform washed and give it back to you when you return."

"Thanks," I say. "I appreciate it." I point to the wrapped present he has left lying on the chair. "Don't forget Jimmy's present, Jim. You don't want to disappoint him for Christmas."

"Actually," he says, picking it up and turning it over in his hands. He studies it for a moment, then he brings it over to my bed and lays it down across my lap. "It's for you. I got it for you, Pete, not Jimmy." He hesitates for a moment, then he turns and starts towards the door. "Anyway, merry Christmas, Pete."

"Wait," I say, stopping him as he starts to open the door. "This is for me?" I ask, picking the gift up.

"Yes, that would be why I gave it to you," he says.

"What is it?" I ask.

"You have to open it, Pete. That's the joy of giving and getting presents. You never know what's hidden beneath the wrapping paper," he says tiredly. "But maybe you don't believe in that concept, either, since there seems to be a lot of stuff you haven't believed in tonight."

Sharply stung by his words, I stare at the present wrapped in red paper, tied with a green bow. "Can I…can I open it now?" I ask.

"It's up to you," he says. "I can't tell you when you should open it." He starts to open the door once more.

"Don't you…I mean, shouldn't you...don't you wanna…" I stutter.

"Watch you open it?" he asks, finishing my sentence for me.

"Uh…yeah," I say.

He stands with his hand on the door for a moment, debating. Then he shrugs. "Yeah, sure, why not?" he sighs, turning around and setting the two bags back down. He gestures to me. "Go ahead and open it, Pete. See what you got."

Suddenly embarassed, for a reason I cannot explain, I pick hesitantly at the shiny paper with a fingernail.

"Just tear it open, Pete," he says, slightly exasperated. "Or it'll be NEXT Christmas before you get it unwrapped."

I slide a fingernail under one of the edges of the paper, tearing it gently. Then, curiosity overtakes me and I rip the paper off with barely disguised glee…

...And then I'm stunned speechless by the gift that is before my shocked eyes. "It's…it's…" I stammer. I look up at Jim with wide eyes. "Is this what I think it is?" I ask, my voice hoarse.

"Yep," he says, grinning at me for the first time since the nurse left my hospital room. "It's the real thing. You like it?"

"Like it?" I ask. "I LOVE IT!" I say raptorously, running my hands over the box in ecstasy and sheer reverence. "It's an official Red Ryder carbine-action, 200 shot range model air rifle, with a compass in the stock and a sundial to tell time!"

"I thought you'd like it, Pete," he says. "I know you wanted a BB gun when you were a kid and never got one, so now you've got one." He comes over to side of my bed. "I even got you a box of BB's to go with it, they're in the box with the rifle."

"But…but…" Sudden emotion wells up in my throat, choking me, and tears sting my eyes. "You shouldn't have, Jim. They don't make these kind of Red Ryder guns anymore, so this had to have cost a pretty penny."

"Eh," he says, shrugging. "Not so much as you think. Besides, it was well-worth it, just to see the look on your face when you opened it, Pete. It was priceless. You looked just like a delighted little kid. Too bad I didn't have my camera to capture that moment."

"No," I say, shaking my head. I'm unable to look him in the eye, for fear that he'll see the tears glistening there. "I can't accept this kind of a present from you, Jim." I thrust the gun at him, keeping my gaze on the blanket. "You take it and get your money back, and get something for my godson, instead."

"Pete, I'm not gonna take it back," he says.

"Then I'll take it and get your money back," I tell him. "You guys need the money worse than I need a BB gun, Jim. There's always something that you need either for the house or the baby, and I wouldn't feel right taking something as nice as this is from you, knowing that the money could be better spent elsewhere." I hold the gun out. "Please, Jim, take it." I swipe at my eyes with the back of the hand that doesn't have the IV port in it.

"Pete," he sighs, slightly exasperated once more. "Look at me."

I shake my head, sniffling a bit. "No," I say in a whisper, keeping my eyes locked firmly on the blanket. "Just take it, please."

"Pete," he says, kneeling down next to the bed. He puts a hand over mine, the one that's holding the gun out to him, and he doesn't remove it as he speaks gently to me. "I'm not gonna take the gun back, okay? You always acted like not getting the gun as a kid didn't bother you, but I could tell it really did. If it hadn't, you wouldn't have mentioned it last year when we were discussing Harvey's present, and you wouldn't have looked so woeful when you saw the gun at the Parker residence this afternoon. And it made me feel really bad for you, that you never got something like that that I know you really wanted. You're my friend, Pete, and I just wanted to do something really nice for you, to let you know how much I appreciate our friendship." He gives my hand a squeeze, then he points to the box. "Besides, I've gotta have someone to help me teach Jimmy how to shoot a BB gun," he says. "And in the meantime, until he gets old enough to learn how to use one, you and I can go target shooting with it, okay? I've still got my old Daisy air rifle at home."

"But you shouldn't have," I croak miserably, now unable to stop the tears that are falling rather freely. "I've been an absolute ass to you all day today, and that's not right. You didn't deserve to be subjected to my pissy attitude, since none of it is your doing."

"Well, that's a relief," he says, standing up. "I was worried maybe I had done something wrong. And don't think I can't see you crying, Pete, 'cuz I can." He pulls a kleenex from the box on the stand next to my bed. He hands it to me. "Here, blow your nose."

I take the hanky and blow my nose. "It must be the crap they gave me in here that's making me cry like this," I say. "I'm not usually emotional and you know it."

"I know," he says, superritiously swiping at his own eyes. "Either that or it's allergies."

"Yeah, allergies," I chuckle wanly. "For both of us." I caress the box that the gun's in for a moment, then I speak. "Do you wanna know why I've been in such a pissy mood all day?" I ask.

"If you want to tell me, sure," he says. He shrugs. "But if you don't, I'll understand. Especially if it's something painful for you to talk about."

I pinch the bridge of my nose. "It's not so much as painful as it is embarassing," I say. "At least the first half, anyway."

"Ah, so this is a two-parter reason to your grinchy mood?" he asks, sitting down in the chair. "Lay it on me, pal." He steeples his fingers, and fixes me with an expectant gaze.

"It started off with my date with Angie the other night and went downhill from there," I begin. I start to pick at the blanket once more. "We've kind of been seeing each other…and not seriously, I might add," I tell him hastily, as I catch his gleeful grin. "Angie's a really sweet girl, and we had a lot of the same interests. She's got a great sense of humor, she dances wonderfully, she's a great cook, and she can almost beat me at bowling. She also likes to go fishing and sailing. I could actually kind of see myself falling in love with her..." I stop, hesitant about how to reveal what happened the other night. "Anyway, the other night we had plans to meet at Las Palomas for dinner, and then catch a show, and maybe go dancing afterwards. I showed up at the restaurant and waited for her. When she didn't show up after a half-hour, I tried calling her apartment. I got no answer, so I thought maybe she was just a little late, that maybe she'd gotten tied up with something at work, or she'd had car trouble, something like that, you know?" I don't wait for Jim to answer. "I waited for two hours. She never showed, never called. I was really worried by that time, so I came back home to see if she had returned to her apartment at any time. Her car was still in the parking lot, and there were lights on in her place. As it turns out, I found she'd never left her apartment at all."

"Why, was she sick?" he asks.

I take a deep breath. "Noo…" I say, drawing it out. "Her…um…husband showed up. She was with him."

"Holy shit, she was MARRIED?" Reed asks in shock. "You gotta be kidding me, Pete!"

I shake my head, feeling miserable as I recall that night. "No, I'm not. She's good and married, Jim."

"So what was her excuse as to why she never told you?" he demands. "I mean, that's a pretty big deal."

"He's in the service," I tell him. "He's in the Army, stationed overseas in Germany. He got a month's leave for the holidays, so he thought he'd surprise her and come home. She didn't know he was coming home at all."

"But she never wore a wedding band, did she?" he asks, righteously angry on my behalf. "Or have pictures of him in her apartment?"

"No, she never wore a wedding band at all. If she had, I would've definitely stayed away. I couldn't live with myself if I knew I was screwing around with a married woman. I don't condone adultery. And yeah, she had pictures of him in her apartment, but not many of them together as a couple. And the few that she did have of the two of them, the impression I got from them was that they were siblings or cousins," I say.

"You…uh…didn't…um…" he asks hesitantly, eyebrows raised. "You know…get that far?" He flushes red from embarassment.

"No, but it came awful damned close several times," I admit. "After all, we did have a pretty strong attraction to each other."

"So now what are you gonna do?" he asks. "I mean, this isn't an ideal situation, Pete. You two live in the same apartment complex and you'll have to see each other, at least occasionally, right?"

"Right," I say. "For now, I don't know what I'm gonna do. I mean, she dropped a bombshell on me when I knocked on her door that night, checking to see if she was okay. When some strange guy in nothing but boxer shorts answered the door, I was a bit surprised. And when Angie came to the door and introduced him as her husband, I was floored, to say the least."

"Does she realize how much it shocked you?" he asks. "I mean, I'd be blindsided by news like that."

"I was," I say. "And I had to grin and shake his hand as she introduced me as her 'best buddy', like I was some kind of faithful old dog of hers, instead of a…well, a boyfriend."

"Man, that's harsh," he says, shaking his head. "That musta really hurt, Pete."

I study the blanket once more. "It does," I tell him quietly. "I really liked her, Jim. And then she goes and pulls a low-down rotten trick like that on me, without it even bothering her."

"Be glad you found out before it went too far," he says. "And you wound up getting not only your heart broken, but your head, too, by a jealous husband." He shrugs. "And look on the bright side: at least you're not married to the two-timing bitch."

"Yeah, I guess," I say. "It's not much of a consolation, though."

"I know it's not," he says. "I'm really sorry that she pulled such an evil stunt on you, Pete. You don't deserve something like that. Let's face it, you're way too good for the likes of her."

"Thanks," I tell him. "Keep reminding me of that, okay?"

"I will," he says. "But it wasn't all the deal with Angie that's upset you, is it?" he asks gently.

"No, it's not," I admit. "I'm going home to Seattle."

"Yeah, you told me," he says. "So a lot of folks go home for the holidays to see their families. What's so bad about that?"

I look over at him, fixing him with a steady gaze. "Jim, in the nearly two years we've been partners, how often have you known me to go home to Seattle to see my parents?"

He thinks for a moment, frowning. "Never, I guess," he says. "But I always figured it was because you couldn't afford the airfare, and you didn't want to drive all that way."

"No, it's not that," I tell him. "I don't go home to Seattle to see my folks for a specific reason."

"Why?" he asks, looking at me with curiosity. "Are they secret ax-murderers? Communist spies? Hippies?"

"I wish," I snort. "No, I don't go home to see my parents because I can't stand my dad."

"So? A lot of guys have issues with their fathers," he says.

"It's more than issues," I tell him. "It's…it's…" I fumble for the words to describe my father.  _He's an bitter, abusive alcoholic who loves nothing more than to belittle me with words, since he can't hit me with his fists anymore. He's a mean sonofabitch, and I hate him for what he did to my mother and I when I was younger._  "It's a lot of things," I say, deftly sidestepping the reasons why I don't like my dad. While I don't mind Jim knowing that I dislike my father, I don't feel comfortable telling him why. That's something I'd prefer to keep locked away inside of myself, along with my other secrets. "My dad and I don't see eye to eye. We never have. We always end up clashing and getting into a nasty argument. Five minutes alone in a room with him, and I'm about ready to jump out a window just to escape." I hesitate, picking at the blanket again. "I get along great with my mom, I always have. I love her dearly, and if it were just her, I wouldn't mind going to see her more often. But unfortunately, that's not the case."

"So if you don't wanna go, why are you going?" he asks.

I pick a fuzzball off of the blanket, not answering him.

"Pete, if you don't wanna tell me…" he begins.

"It's my dad," I say, interrupting him. "He's had a heart attack. So I hafta go home."

"Oh my God, Pete," Reed says, slightly stunned. "How bad?"

I shrug. "I dunno. She called me last night to tell me he was in the hospital." I fall silent for a moment, then I speak. "It happened Friday morning, I guess. I thought my mom was calling to wish me a merry Christmas, like she always does, but instead, she wanted to visit the ghosts of Christmases past."

"You don't have very good memories of Christmas, I take it," Reed says.

"No, not really," I say, without elaborating. "Let's just say that Christmas for me has traditionally been kind of…of…well, not of glad tidings and great joy. When my mom called to apparently reminisce, I got a little irritated with her, since Christmases past with my parents have been less than harmonious. And then when she dropped the bombshell on me that my dad had suffered a heart attack and she needed me home, I was shocked. Not to mention, I felt like a complete heel for being irritated with her."

"I'm sorry, Pete, is there anything I can do?" he asks. "You name it, and I'll move heaven and earth to get it or do it for you."

"You could go home for me," I tell him.

"Sorry, but that's ONE thing I CAN'T do for you, Pete," he says. "I think your parents would notice a huge difference in their son."

"I know," I sigh, my ribs aching. "I'm just not looking forward to it, you know? I was planning on taking today to mentally prepare myself for the homecoming, that's why I wasn't going to come over to your house for Christmas Day." I look over at him. "And it's really crappy, you know? I was actually looking forward to spending Christmas Day with you and Jean and Jimmy. I really had fun picking out presents for the three of you, and I couldn't wait to see you guys open them. For once in what seems like forever, Christmas didn't so damned depressing to me, you know? And then something like this comes along and blows it out of the water. I mean, I know my dad couldn't help having a heart attack, but still…it's just…you know."

"Yeah, I do," he says. "And you can still have Christmas with us, Pete. I know you thought it was going to be both Jean's family and mine this year at our house, but it's not. It's just going to be Jean, Jimmy, and I. We had Christmas last weekend at my parents', and we go tomorrow to be with Jean's folks."

"But then it should BE just your little family, Jim. It's Jimmy's first Christmas, you and Jean need to cherish it. That milestone only happens once. You don't need me there intruding," I tell him.

"I told you earlier, you're not intruding, Pete. If we didn't want you there, we wouldn't have asked you to come," he says. "Tell you what. If you feel up to it when they spring you from here later on this morning, why don't you stop by our house for at least a little bit, okay? Maybe that will put you in a decent enough mood for when you go home to Seattle. You don't hafta stay for dinner or anything, if you don't wanna. Just stop by and see Jimmy open his gifts from you, okay?"

"Yeah, okay," I hedge. "Maybe. I'll see how I feel when I get outta here." I look at the clock on my wall once more. "Anyway, it's almost 3 A.M. You'd better get going so you can get home and get some rest."

"Yeah," he nods, standing up. "Call me when you find out what time they'll release you. I'll have Jean drive me to the station to pick up your car, then I'll swing by here and get you. Then I'll take you home, or back to our place, whichever you feel like. I'll grab your clothes out of your locker, too, and bring them to you here, so you don't have to wear surgical scrubs home."

"Thanks," I say. "I really appreciate it."

"Hey, not a problem. That's what friends are for, you know," he says, walking to the door.

"Hey," I call, stopping him as he is preparing to open the door. "Thanks, Jim, for everything," I say, slightly sheepishly and somewhat embarrassed. "For this," I say, holding the BB gun up. "And for…uh…listening to me." I clear my throat. "I'm really glad I have a friend like you, Jim."

"Yeah, I know," he says, grinning. "I'm glad too, Pete. I'll see you later on today, okay?" And with that, he leaves.

I settle myself back into bed, turning off the light. "What a helluva Christmas Eve shift," I murmur to myself. Images come back in snatches to my weary and pounding brain; the blue-eyed baby abandoned in the church manger, the young couple and their happiness over getting their sad little Christmas tree for their kids, the Parker couple and their argument over the BB gun, the Atkins kids being taken away from their vicious mother, the rescue of Raylene's stuffed donkey, Mr. Griswold and his enthusiastic Christmas display, Mary Kearney's suicide in a fleabag rooming house, and the subsequent discovery that she was the mother of the baby abandoned earlier, the brief flashing memory of our car wreck, and helping Sharon Andrews give birth to her son in a bus shelter in the middle of a storm. With those thoughts dancing around like sugarplums in my head, I soon drift off into a sleep.

"Pete?" Sherry the nurse asks me, gently shaking my shoulder after she comes in and checks on me. "Why do you have a BB gun clutched in your arms?"

"'Cuz it's the best Christmas present ever, and I ain't lettin' go of it," I mumble sleepily, then I doze back off.

* * *

"Hey, how do you feel?" Jim Reed asks as he strides into my room later that Christmas Day. He sounds suspiciously giddy.

"Like going home," I say. I take the proferred bag of clothes that he hands me. "Dr. Brackett gave me the okay to be released."

"How's your head feel?" he asks.

"It hurts, so do my ribs," I say. "But he gave me a prescription for some painkillers that I can get filled at the hospital pharmacy downstairs. As long as I take it easy today, I should be in semi-good shape to fly home to Seattle tomorrow."

"Here," he says, holding his hand out. "Why don't you let me go ahead and get the prescription filled for you while you get dressed?" He jerks a thumb towards the hallway outside my door. "Is all your paperwork signed and ready to go as far as your release?" he asks.

"Yeah," I say, handing him the piece of paper the prescription is written on.

"Great," he says. "I'll go get this filled while you get dressed. I'll be back up to get you in a few minutes. Then we can take off."

I give him the hairy eyeball. "Do you have something else up your sleeve, Reed?" I ask suspiciously. "Is that why you're in such a big hurry to get me out of here?"

"No," he says, flashing me his best innocent look. He grins widely. "Pete, it's Christmas. I'm just in a really good mood, okay?"

"Reed, it's BEEN Christmas for several hours now," I say.

"Yeah, I know," he says jovially. He points a finger at the newspaper that was delivered along with my breakfast tray. "Oh, by the way. Check out the story on the inside front page." The he's gone in a flash, leaving me rather bewildered in his wake.

I quickly slip off the hideous ass-baring hospital gown and get dressed. I get dressed so fast, in fact, that I'm ready to go before Reed returns with the prescription for me. Curious as to what he meant about the newspaper, I settle into one of the chairs and I pick it up. I'd only glanced at it, having gotten intrigued this morning by "A Miracle On 34th Street" that was playing on one of the local tv channels. I flip the paper open to the inside page.

 _LAPD OFFICERS DELIVER BABY DURING STORM, DESPITE CAR ACCIDENT…_ the headline reads. Reed's departmental picture, along with mine, is under the headline. I begin to read.  _Two Los Angeles police officers, identified as James A. Reed, 24, and Peter J. Malloy, 33, were involved overnight in what can truly be described as a Christmas miracle._

_The two officers were were on routine patrol on Milner Road about a mile west of Las Palmas Avenue when an oncoming car hit an icy patch on the wet pavement, skidding directly into the path of their squad car. Officer Malloy, who was driving the squad car, attempted to take evasive action in order to avoid a collision, but the two vehicles struck anyway, at speeds of approximately 45 MPH. The squad car spun and rolled once, ending up in the northbound ditch, while the other car crashed into the southbound ditch of Milner Road. Amazingly, neither Officer Malloy nor Officer Reed sustained serious injuries in the crash, and both were able to make it out of their wrecked police cruiser in order to check on the other driver._

_But that's not the miraculous part. For when the two officers approached the other vehicle involved, they discovered that the female passenger in the car, Sharon Andrews, 23, was in labor and due to give birth any minute. Since the radio in the squad car had been damaged in the crash, the officers could not call out for help, so they flagged down a passing motorist and began to prepare to deliver a baby in the worst of conditions imaginable. An icy rainstorm with heavy winds pelted down on them, and the only shelter available was a nearby bus shelter, a few yards down the road. Pulling Mrs. Andrews from the wreckage of the car, they carried her to the shelter, placing her on the cement floor. And by the time help finally arrived, she had already given birth to a baby boy, with the help of Officer Malloy and Officer Reed._

" _They were just wonderful," Mrs. Andrews stated from her room at Rampart Hospital, where she and her infant had been transported after the incident. "Officer Malloy was the one who helped my baby into the world, while Officer Reed gave me support and encouragement. I'll admit, I was very scared, but somehow I knew that my child and I were in good hands with these two men. I owe them a huge debt of gratitude for what they've done. They worked through not only the harsh elements, but their own injuries as well, and without them, I don't know what would've happened to my baby and I. They were our guardian angels." When asked what name she is planning on bestowing on her miracle child, born just after midnight on Christmas Day, she states that she and her husband, who is in the Air Force and stationed overseas, haven't decided yet. But she's quick to add that it won't be Jesus Christ. She's spoken with her husband once since the ordeal began, and she's states that "He's a very proud and happy husband and father, and he's extremely grateful to the two officers for rescuing us." She said that he is on his way home now from Okinawa to see his newborn son and wife._

_But there was a tragic twist to the story. The driver of the other vehicle, Mark M. Staley, 25, of Malibu, was killed in the wreck. He had been attempting to drive Mrs. Andrews to the hospital when their car hit an icy patch on the roadway and spun out of control, hitting the oncoming squad car._

_A police spokesman for the Los Angeles Police Department said that the two officers, Peter Malloy and James Reed, were taken to Rampart Hospital for treatment of their own injuries. Officer Reed was treated and released, while Officer Malloy was kept overnight for observation. He is expected to be released today. Neither officer was available for comment, and the police spokesman refused to release any further information. Both Mrs. Andrews and her baby boy are in good condition at Rampart Hospital._

_So for those of you who don't believe in miracles, all you have to do is ask Sharon Andrews. She'll tell you that she and her son are living proof that miracles DO exist, thanks to the help of two LAPD officers and guardian angels, Peter Malloy and James Reed._

"See?" Reed asks from the doorway. "You're famous, Pete. Whaddaya think of that?"

"You're famous, too," I point out. "You had just as much to do with helping her as I did, Jim." I frown. "Does this mean that there's gonna be a horde of news media camped out in front of the hospital?" I ask.

"No, the media's not here," he says. "They've moved onto other stories by now."

"Yeah, it probably only got printed because they were desperate for a rousing little Christmas story, anyway," I say. "Any other time, they'd have blown it off."

"Mmm," he says, shrugging. "Maybe. In any case, it's kind of a nice little tale, all warm and fuzzy, guaranteed to make you feel good inside." He shakes the bag holding my prescription. "Got your medicine for ya. You ready to roll?"

"Yeah," I say, standing up and tossing the newspaper into the trash. Then I hesitate, picking it back out. "What?" I ask, shrugging as Reed rolls his eyes. "It's kind of a sweet tale. And it's something to look back on with fondness, the next time the media decides to make the LAPD a literary whipping boy." I pick up my Red Ryder BB gun, clutching it protectively to me. "And I'll be damned if I'm gonna forget this," I say, grinning. "It's the best gift I've ever gotten, I think."

"Glad you like it, Pete," Jim says. "Where's your wheelchair?"

"I'm not leaving in a wheelchair," I tell him.

"But it's hospital policy," he says.

"I got around that," I smirk.

"How so?" he asks, puzzled.

"I won't reveal my secret," I tell him slyly. I pick up a piece of paper from my nightstand. "But let's just say it involves something with this." I wave the paper under his nose.

"It's a phone number," he says, looking at it. Then he starts chuckling as he realizes whose number it is. "It's that nurse's number isn't it?" he asks. "The one who thought you had such a cute little tushy."

"Yeah, her name's Sherry Peterson," I tell him. "And let's just say I managed to bypass the hospital release rules by making a little promise."

"Lemme guess," he says. "You and your cute little tushy are going to take her out sometime, right?"

"Perhaps," I say archly. "And Reed, one more remark about my cute little tushy and I'm smacking you up alongside the head." I wag a finger at him. "And that term had BETTER NOT get around the station, or I'll know who started it. And so help me God…"

"Oh, quit bitching and let's go," he says, opening the door. "Hey," he says as we walk down the hallway to the elevator. "I…uh…kinda peeked into the trunk of your car when I picked it up at the station a bit ago. I wanted to see the presents you'd gotten us."

I give him a mock-sour look. "You're not supposed to do that, Reed. It's kinda like cheating, you know?"

"I know," he says. "But I'm curious. What's in the bigger box that has my name on it?"

"I'm not telling," I say firmly. "You'll hafta open it and see when you get home."

"I can't have a little hint?" he wheedles. "Just one tiny weensy itsy bitsy speck of a hint?"

I pause dramatically, pretending to consider it. "It's…a…"

"Tell me!" he begs. "Tellmetellmetellme!"

"It's a box," I intone mysteriously, a enigmatic grin on my face.  _He'll be surprised when he finds out I got him a new Mr. Potato Head for Christmas,_ I think to myself.

"Drats," he mutters. "Foiled." He pushes the button on the elevator to go up.

"Why'd you push the 'up' button?" I ask. "We need to go DOWN, not UP!"

"Oh crap," he says, frowning. "I guess I wasn't paying attention. I'll fix it when we get in." He nudges me. "Hey, you comin' over for Christmas with us today?" he asks.

"Yeah," I say. "I suppose. If you'll still have me."

"Are you KIDDING?" he asks. "I'm dying to know what's in that box." The elevator dings to a stop in front of us, the doors whooshing open. We're the only two in the car, and as the doors slide shut, Reed punches the button for the seventh floor.

"Jim, you pushed the button for the wrong floor!" I say, dismayed. "We need the ground floor, not seventh."

"I just want to do one quick thing," he says. "If that's okay with you."

"What is it?" I ask warily.

"You'll have to wait and see," he says, his own tone mysterious. "Have yourself a merry little Christmas," he begins to croon. "Let your heart be light...from now on our troubles will be out of sight…"

"Jim," I groan. "Please. No more singing Christmas carols, okay? My head ain't up to taking that just yet."

"Okay," he says, shrugging. The elevator stops on the seventh floor, the doors whooshing open. He steps out, turning to see if I'm following. "C'mon," he says.

I hesitate. "Why don't you go on ahead?" I ask. "I'll wait down at the car for you."

"Pete," he sighs, rolling his eyes. "Come on." He grabs me by the sleeve of my jacket and hauls a reluctant me out of the elevator. "It will only take a minute, I swear. And I sorta promised someone this, and I'll be damned if I'm gonna renege on a promise on Christmas Day."

"Okay, fine," I say, falling in next to him. As we walk down the hallway towards a private room, it begins to dawn on me what floor we're on. "Is this…is this the MATERNITY ward?" I ask, slightly irritated. "What are we doing on the maternity ward?"

"This," he says, knocking on a door to one of the rooms. When a voice bids him to enter, he opens it. "This is what we're doing here, Pete," he says, gesturing to someone on the bed.

"Mrs. Andrews!" I say, stunned. I look at Jim with confusion. "I don't understand it. Why'd you bring me up here?"

"I wanted to see you, Officer Malloy," she says, somewhat shyly. She is sitting up in bed, dressed in a blue nightgown, her hair brushed and tied back from her face with a blue ribbon. She's holding a little bundle wrapped in a yellow blanket. "I wanted to thank you for what you did for us this morning. Without you and Officer Reed, I don't know what I would've done. My baby and I probably both would have died, if you two hadn't been there to help." She smiles at me, such a sweet smile, her eyes shining with gratitude, that I look down at my feet in embarassment. "My husband and I are extremely grateful. We can never repay you for what you've done."

"It was nothing, really," I say, rubbing at a spot on the tile with toe of my shoe. "I just used my training and my experience, that's all."

"But you were injured, too, and had to deal with the lousy weather to boot. How you did it, I'll never know," she says. "Your partner says that you have a concussion and some cracked ribs from the accident."

I shrug. "Yeah, but I'm okay. I've had worse injuries than a sore head and some cracked ribs." I look up at her. "How are you feeling? And how's the baby doing?"

"Oh, I'm fine," she says. "I'm a little sore myself, but that's okay. And the baby's doing just great."

"That's good to hear, Mrs. Andrews," I tell her. "I'm really glad you and the baby are okay."

"Anyway," she says, looking lovingly down at the little bundle cuddled in her arms. "I'd like you to meet someone."

"Go on, Pete," Reed says when I hesitate, gently nudging me towards the bed. "Go see him."

I go over to the side of her bed and she flips the edge of the blanket down to reveal her sleeping baby boy, head fuzzy with dark hair like his mother's. "He's a pretty cute little guy," I say, smiling. "Have you decided on a name for him yet?"

"Would you like to hold him?" she asks, seemingly not having heard me.

"Uh…well…" I stammer. "My hands are kinda full…"

"Here, let me take that for you, Pete," Reed offers, stepping forward. He takes the BB gun and the newspaper from me. I give the gun a lingering glance and he grins, shaking his head. "I promise I'll give it back to you, don't worry."

I hold my arms out and she carefully places the sleeping bundle of baby into my grasp. He awakens with a start, feeling the change in who's holding him, and I hold my breath, waiting for him to begin wailing. He doesn't. Instead, he screws up his little cupid's bow lips, hiccupping slightly, then he fixes me with a wondering gaze, his dark blue eyes searching mine. My hardened heart instantly melts into a puddle of goo and I find that I can't stop grinning. "He's beautiful," I murmur, utterly transfixed. "He's got dark blue eyes, just like the baby we found in the manger."

"All babies have blue eyes when they're first born, Pete," Reed says, peering at him from over my shoulder.

I take my index finger, gently stroking it across his soft little cheek. He waves a tiny hand at me, and I put my finger into his wee palm, the small fingers closing firmly around my bigger one. And suddenly I feel that same tugging sensation I'd felt when I'd held the abandoned baby at the church. It surges through me, swooping brightly into my soul, my heart, my mind, and I finally realize what it is… it's sheer joy and happiness, mixed with a bit of love and pure awe…and maybe just a little hint of my alleged lost faith. "He's really something, isn't he?" I say softly. I look over at Mrs. Andrews. "Have you decided on a name for this little guy?"

She smiles. "Yes, we have. I talked it over with my husband when I called to tell him our good news, and we decided on the perfect name for him."

"I hope it's not Jesus Christ," I say.

"No," she says, still smiling. "Pete Malloy, meet Peter James Andrews."

"You named him after us?" I ask, completely stunned. "You didn't have to do that, Mrs. Andrews. Not at all."

"I know, but we wanted to name him after our two saviors this morning. We felt it was only right," she says. "I hope that's okay with you, Officer Malloy."

"I'm truly honored, Mrs. Andrews," I say rather hoarsely, tears pricking at my eyes once more as a lump wells up in my throat. "Truly honored. Thank you so much."

"So," Jim Reed says, still looking over my shoulder at our tiny namesake. "Was this enough of a Christmas miracle to make you believe that miracles DO exist?"

I glance at him, seeing that his own eyes are shiny with tears. I turn my gaze back to Peter James Andrews cuddled in my arms, his fingers still wrapped around mine. He studies me with those intense blue eyes, frowning, as if he's trying to figure me out. All the wisdom of Heaven seems to be hidden within those deep blue depths. "Yeah," I whisper, completely awe-struck by this tiny bundle. "I believe in them now, Jim…"

And then, as if by magic, from the little transistor radio sitting on Sharon Andrews' nightstand, comes the beautiful voice of Judy Garland singing a sweet Christmas carol.

_Have yourself a merry little Christmas;_

_Let your heart be light._

_From now on, our troubles will be out of sight._

_Have yourself a merry little Christmas;_

_Make the Yuletide gay._

_From now on, our troubles will be far away._

_Here we are as in olden days, happy golden days of yore;_

_Faithful friends who are dear to us, gather near to us once more._

_Through the years we all will be together, if the Fates allow._

_Hang a shining star upon the highest bow,_

_And have yourself a merry little Christmas now..._

"Yes, I believe in miracles now," I whisper once more to the tiny baby in my arms, who smiles rather knowingly at me, and then closes his eyes, peacefully drifting off to sleep.

THE END

_I hope you all have enjoyed reading this little Christmas piece. I truly enjoyed writing it, despite the worry over possibly not meeting the deadline in time. I hope that the ending isn't too sappy, but I figured I had to give Pete a sweet ending to his otherwise crummy Christmas Eve watch. My many, many gracious thanks and appreciation go out to the all the readers and reviewers who have taken the time to read this story. Your kind words and encouragement is what keeps me writing! To paraphrase Clement Moore: "And I heard her exclaim as she 'wrote' out of sight, 'Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night!'"_

_MERRY CHRISTMAS AND HAPPY NEW YEAR!_


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